Judging Angels
by RogueWraith
Summary: It's twelve years since Anakin didn't become a Jedi and Padmé never ruled Naboo. A sweeping tale of suspense and intrigue begins with a twist the galaxy couldn't see coming. (**Author's notes and legacy reviews in profile.**)
1. Prologue (Or, 'The Dealer')

_·:·_

* * *

_If life was a game of luck, Fate was the dealer. She dealt you a hand at birth, and you played with what you got. Sometimes you got ahead, usually you fell behind, and the house always won in the end. Still, every now and then, your hand inexplicably altered, almost as if someone swapped cards with you when you weren't looking._

_Many years later, Anakin Skywalker could still remember the first day __his cards had changed._

**.**

·:·

_**·**_

"Well, young one, have you decided? Will you join me to become a Jedi?"

Anakin hesitated. He feared what he was about to say would deeply hurt a man he'd much rather not. But it couldn't be helped.

He looked at his sand-dusted foot coverings, then back into the kindly blue eyes of the man who knelt before him. "I've decided, Master Qui-Gon. I… I won't go with you. I can't. Not without my mom. She needs me."

A troubled expression passed over Qui-Gon's face. "Anakin," he said carefully, "I greatly admire your concern for those who love you. I admire your willingness to make sacrifices for them. And as for your mother…" He sighed and looked away. "Anakin, I would give anything to free her. But it is simply not in my power."

Anakin looked at his foot coverings again, suddenly uncomfortable. "I know, Master Qui-Gon," he said, nodding slowly. "I understand. You have to follow the Jedi rules."

The troubled expression on Qui-Gon's face deepened into a frown. "Yes," he said quietly. "I must follow the Jedi way. I may not betray my mandate." His voice held calm resignation, but when Anakin checked, his face looked like he had just tasted something bitter.

Anakin looked up anxiously. "Please, Master Qui-Gon, don't be mad at me. I remember what you told me—about my 'destiny'." He looked down again. "I'm sorry that I'll never be a Jedi."

Qui-Gon Jinn looked him over for a long while. "Peace, Anakin," he said at last. "It is your life. _You_ must choose your path through it; it is your right. But whatever your choice, I am convinced that a bright future awaits you, far beyond the Tatooine suns, and that you will take your proper place in the galaxy in the end. And as for 'never' becoming a Jedi"—here the older man's regal features crooked into a grin—"I wouldn't be so dire, young one. 'Never' is quite a long time. If it is the will of the Force, you _will_ become a Jedi, however long it takes." He paused, and the grin faded. "And if it is the will of the Force… we shall see one another again." He stood up. "But now I must leave you."

Anakin's lower lip quavered. "I hate goodbyes."

"All life is ending and beginning again, young one." Smiling, Qui-Gon tucked his long arms into the folds of his tunic. "But as I am of a similar feeling, let us simply say, 'May the Force be with you.'"

**.**

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_**·**_

From the small opening in the outer wall of her living quarters, Shmi Skywalker had observed the entire proceedings. Her heart swelled as she watched the tall, stately Jedi conversing with her little boy as though with an equal, then gave a sudden lurch at the sight of Anakin moving away from him, first with slow steps, and then breaking into an all-out run. The interview had ended, and Shmi knew Anakin would be off as quickly as possible to get away from any unwelcome feelings of sadness or loss. Though knowing he would return, she hated to see him leave her even for a moment.

A slight tap at the portal caught her attention. She moved to open it, smoothing her hair.

"Master Qui-Gon," she said warmly. "Do come in, please."

"Thank you." He ducked beneath the low threshold to enter.

Shmi led the way to the dining area, gesturing to a chair which was solid, if roughly made. "Will you sit?"

Qui-Gon Jinn eased into the seat, crossing his booted legs.

"Do you take tea?"

"Please."

Shmi reached for a small container of dried olus leaves and made for the kitchen. When crumpled in liquid, the leaves produced a flavorful beverage smelling of flowers. They also had the pleasing effect of steaming in cold water, which made them a refreshing favorite on a planet where no one would think of drinking anything hot until long after the suns were down. In a few moments, she returned with a large mug for Qui-Gon and a small cup for herself. Carefully, she handed the Jedi his drink, then sat across from him and took up her own. Several minutes ticked off in companionable silence.

After a time, Qui-Gon put down his mug. "Anakin has given me his answer. He will remain on Tatooine for the present. We have said our farewells."

"He is gone, then?"

"Yes. He is off to play with his young friend Kitster."

"Now he is free, he may play as much as he likes." But a wistful expression passed over Shmi's face.

Qui-Gon looked at her carefully. "Are you pleased with his decision?"

"I am happy to keep him with me," Shmi admitted. "But I had rather he went with you to become a Jedi. It's what he's always wanted."

"Anakin must make his own choices," Qui-Gon said simply. "That is the meaning of freedom."

"But I am afraid he has missed his only chance. He may repent of it later."

Qui-Gon took another sip of the cool, fragrant tea. "Anakin doesn't seem the sort to waste time on regret. And the Force appears to indicate that his life will be filled with many such opportunities."

Shmi took this in quietly.

"However, his decision does raise a new possibility," Qui-Gon continued. "Watto intimated he felt the boy was worth more than his mother. I will never grasp this concept of placing monetary value on sentient lives, but perhaps it can be used to your advantage."

"What do you suggest?"

"Watto may be persuaded to release _you_ instead, and provide a hefty sum to make up what he sees as the balance. You could then give your son a more comfortable home, and perhaps an education, while he waits for his circumstances to further improve."

Shmi shook her head firmly. "I want Anakin to take his freedom now, whatever his circumstances in it. He does not have the heart for servitude that I have learned. He will never accept a slave's life quietly. In time, it will destroy him." Rising, Shmi collected the empty cup and mug, took them back into the small kitchen, and began wiping them clean with a tattered cloth. "It's better this way. This way, he has an opportunity for a better life now."

Qui-Gon regarded her quietly. "And you, Shmi? What of your life?"

She paused for a moment, as if the question were a new one. "I am content," she said at last, turning to meet the keen gaze. "And Anakin is a clever boy. He will find a way to free me someday. He has said so many times."

Qui-Gon rose slowly from his seat. "I am moved by the purity of your spirit and the strength of your will. You speak soft, sure words you are certain must be true. Anakin is favored to have you."

Shmi smiled. "I am a mother, Qui-Gon Jinn. That is all."

"No," he replied calmly. "You are far more. In another life..." Grasping her by the shoulder, he peered into her face with such intensity, she was certain he could see to the depths of her soul. Her throat clenched down an unexpected sob. With warmth filling her eyes, she pressed his palm to her lips, then abruptly turned away so he wouldn't see the tears fall.

"Farewell, Master Jedi."

She sensed him standing behind her for several moments, and then heard the measured tread of his boots taking him out of her home, out of her life. The tears were falling in earnest now. Taking up another frayed cloth, she began scrubbing her cooking panel furiously, only to pause when she heard the boots pause. There was a low _thunk_, another pause, and then the muffled scrapes of nerf leather digging into sand, growing fainter each instant. A few seconds more, and all Shmi could hear was the ordinary milling about of passersby. Still, she remained bent at the cooking panel for a long while, feeling the day grow cooler as evening approached. It was the thought of evening that brought her back to herself.

_I must prepare our meal. Anakin will be home soon._

Sighing, she turned around, intending to arrange the table setting at once. But an unfamiliar object on the platform near the entryway stopped her in her tracks. Shmi was still examining it with wonder when a distant voice piped a greeting. Within moments, Anakin raced into the tiny home with sand trailing from his foot coverings, bringing the smells of the brisk evening in with him. Smiling broadly, Shmi shook her head. Greeting her son at day's end was something like welcoming a small tempest: everything was noise and excitement, everything was everywhere, and everywhere was sand.

"...and then I told Kitster about how now Watto can never, ever hit me any more, or even yell, no matter how mad he gets, _ever again_, because now I get to be free, and Kitster thinks it's _really—_what's that, Mom?"

"Oh, Ani," Shmi said happily. "Look at what Master Jedi Qui-Gon has left for you. Isn't it wonderful?" She held out the gift, and Anakin took it carefully into his hands.

"It's a Coruscanti datapad, just like the Jedi use." Shmi crouched down to look her son in the eye. "Now you can learn all about different planets and their histories, and you can even learn languages and sciences. It will teach you, Anakin. It will teach you everything you wish to know."

Anakin eyed it nervously. "Will you help me learn?"

"Of course, my darling."

Anakin looked up at her solemnly. "I'll never forget him, Mom."

Resisting the urge to pull her son into a tight embrace—Anakin did not relish hugs—Shmi contented herself with fondly smoothing the hair from his sticky forehead. "Nor he you, my love," she said softly, giving the boy a gentle nudge toward the 'fresher. "Nor he you."

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

_Twelve years had passed since that bittersweet day, and Anakin hadn't looked back. But though life had long since taught him to be alert, to pay attention even when nothing seemed amiss, he was still unprepared for the vision about to enter his world, altering it forever._

_For the rest of his life he would ask himself how he hadn't seen it coming._

_To the end of his days he would wonder just when Fate swapped his deuce for a Queen._

* * *

_·:·_


	2. Face of an Angel

·:·

* * *

_In another life, she might have been queen. It wasn't so much her form, which was slight, or her appearance, which, while lovely, was not extraordinary in a galaxy with myriads of dazzling creatures. It wasn't even her birth. Her father had ended his political career several years before her arrival, her mother had never aspired to one in the first place, and the end of it was that she'd been born into the comfortable but modest home of a simple family that made its aim to live quietly. There was little place for ambition in such surroundings, small room for grandiose thinking under such circumstances. In short, Padmé Naberrie possessed few of the accoutrements typically associated with greatness. And yet she was great, though she did not know it._

_She might have guessed it, however, from the attention she drew wherever she went. If asked, none of her admirers could have explained just what it was about her that they found so appealing. Some would have mentioned her soft lips and expressive mouth, without recognizing that the real attraction lay in the glint of her grin, which was a bit crooked. Many would have pointed to the luminosity of her large brown eyes (she had the unsettling habit of turning them straight on you), without realizing that their true appeal lay in a certain something _behind_ them—a sort of earnest innocence that all of Coruscant's glittering decadence had been unable to taint. It was as if, long after she was old enough to know better, she truly believed she could improve the universe through sheer strength of will. It was this belief, this earnestness, which caused her to gain the confidence of others without trying for it, and it was this ease in gaining confidence that would have made Padmé a fine queen. _

_But it was not to be. By some perverse turn of the dice, her quiet life was upended, and Naboo as she knew it ceased to be long before she could dream of ruling it._

**.**

·:·

_**·**_

The cool air was choked with exhaust, and artificial sunlight danced on the countless gleaming surfaces that gave the planet its name. With alarm signals blaring, a slew of harried commuters swerved into a small airspeeder's path, and then_—_just as suddenly_—_came to a dead stop.

Alone in the speeder, Padmé sighed.

_I still don't understand why I have to be here._

She fought the urge to berate herself for not taking a hoverbus. It didn't do any good to dwell on her error; it wouldn't change the situation at hand. Still, she didn't have to just sit there in Coruscant's legendary rush-hour air traffic, simmering with irritation. With a nod, she jerked the controls to the upper right, cutting through several stacked rows of stalled vehicles. Angry blasts and gestures greeted her, but she simply continued on her way, sending out waves of calm and peace as best she could.

_I'm sorry for your distress, but I have problems of my own._

After descending a few dozen levels, she straightened out the speeder and renewed her search. Shops might be grittier in the lower levels, but they were also less crowded. It wasn't long before she located a promising sector. She could only hope it would have what she'd spent the entire day looking for.

As she approached one of several landing platforms, she thought of her current assignment and frowned. She could guess its aim. Its aim was to teach her humility in preparation for the Jedi Trials, which were themselves intended to prepare her for a lifetime of quiet duty and willing sacrifice. But as much as she understood her master's good intentions, and as much as she wanted to be agreeable, she really didn't like her current assignment. No. She _hated _it.

"You don't have to like it," her master had informed her. "But you do have to do as you're told. A Jedi is unflinchingly obedient."

_Well, here I am, being 'unflinchingly obedient'._

Rolling her eyes, she pulled the speeder toward an appropriate spot on the landing platform, eased it to a stop, and paused to scowl again.

_I've got to have the most over-protective master in the entire Jedi Order._

Swinging her legs over the left side, she dropped to the duracrete beneath and began marching towards a cluster of shops in the distance. Though she knew it was childish, she found herself stomping.

_Zade got to liberate a captive world. Sulmari got to investigate a syndicate-owned fuel reactor plant. Obi-Wan Kenobi got to take on the first Sith apprentice in thousands of years, and twelve years later, the Order's_ _still talking about it._

She jabbed a navigation panel on her datapad console, pulling up a descriptive list of the nearby shops.

_Cysm's out exploring Wild Space. Toph-Rin-San is saving Dantooine from an imploding star. And me?_

Sighing, she scrolled through the list.

_I get to stay on Coruscant._ I _get to source my own lightsaber parts._

A few shops looked promising, but Padmé felt her patience dwindling. She wanted to be back in the Temple, reading lore or meditating in the Gardens. She'd never manifested interest in any aspect of the mechanical world beyond a few admittedly fascinating courses in applied astrophysics, and no interest at all in Jedi weaponry. More to the point, she intended to become a Consular after passing the Trials, not a Guardian, and thus hoped to rarely be called upon to use her weapon. Surely, her master must have realized_—_

A sudden bright ray of light flashed from a nearby surface, dazzling her. Squinting, she could just make out the entrance to the newest of the three shops she'd been considering.

Pulling her hood forward with a shrug, she walked in.

**.**

·:· ·:·

_**·**_

After many minutes spent wandering from aisle to aisle, Padmé faltered to a stop. All of the battered shelving units looked equally cluttered, equally baffling. Sighing in frustration, she twisted her Initiate's braid between thumb and forefinger, worrying her lip.

"You lost, Angelface?"

Padmé whirled around. Immediately before her, propped against a durasteel counter, leaned a young man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Though his hands were busy fiddling with the mechanical innards of what looked like a mini-homing droid, he kept his blue eyes trained on her. It was as if he didn't need to actually observe his task to accomplish it.

Grinning, he tossed a wink at her.

Padmé looked the young man over from his tousled hair to his scruffy boots, then nodded. Nothing was amiss. She'd encountered many others like him, and had managed all of them successfully. In fact, the attentions that had once mortified her now merely annoyed her, and occasionally they even proved useful. Today, for instance, this particular young man might help expedite her errand so she wouldn't have to spend any more time in this scrap pit than necessary.

"Thank you, I would welcome assistance," she intoned, bowing in formal greeting. "Perhaps you can direct me to the_—_"

"What's your name?"

_Oh, Force,_ Padmé thought wearily. _Here we go._

"I am Padawan Naberrie," she said stiffly.

Not seeming discouraged in the least, the young man gave her another disarming grin. "Ah," he said, shifting to lean back on his left elbow, "'Padawan'. So you're a Jedi, yeah? That would explain the..." He gestured vaguely at her voluminous gray robes. "Not exactly the height of Coruscanti fashion."

Padmé inclined her head. "Indeed. 'A Jedi knows_—_"

"_—_no possession,'" he finished smoothly.

Padmé glanced up at him, startled. "You are familiar with our Order?"

An odd expression came into the young man's eyes. "You could say that."

_What a curious individual._

Resisting an impulse to probe the Force for a resolution to this mystery, Padmé returned to the task at hand, resuming her perusal of the motley items strewn on the store shelving. One by one, she questioned them, _Are you what my master would have me use?_

After several more minutes, the young man interrupted her search again. "I'm Anakin Skywalker," he offered.

_How nice for you, _Padmé thought. Why was he still attempting to communicate? She was openly ignoring him.

A few more moments ticked off in silence. Then she heard the young man lay down his welding laser. "It's on the top shelf, Angelface," he said. "Right side. Behind the copper conduits."

She glanced over her shoulder, this time making no secret of her irritation. "_What _is?"

Placing his palms on the counter behind him, he crossed his booted legs at the ankle. "Your power cell."

He said it so simply, so calmly. As if rather than wandering around in the throes of bewilderment for over thirty standard minutes, she had simply walked up to him and announced her errand.

_'It's on the top shelf,'_ she inwardly mimicked. _'Right side.' Well, that's all fine and well when you're nearly two meters tall._

Shaking her head, she looked about for a stepstool.

"Don't worry," the young man called Anakin said easily, moving from his counter at last. "I'll get it for you."

And as he made his fluid way across the room, Padmé couldn't help but admire him. He moved his limbs with an casual, almost languid grace. The cramped parts shop was hardly a study in ergonomic correctness, yet he seemed comfortable amid its jumble, nimbly avoiding jutting corners and rusty outcroppings. He could have been a dancer, she mused.

_Or a Jedi Knight._

She blinked at the traitorous thought, then sternly told herself not to be silly. This person called Skywalker was indeed a beautiful, perhaps even a splendid man, but she had seen beautiful men before this day. The Force in its bounty had produced many glorious creatures.

"Hey. Here you go."

Padmé started. Apparently, the said glorious creature had been standing before her, power cell in hand, for several moments. She hadn't even seen him reach for it.

"Oh," she said absently. "Yes. Thank you." She looked up at him. "How many credits do I owe you?"

He waved a hand. "Don't worry about it."

Padmé eyed him carefully. "I appreciate your generosity_—_"

"It's nothing."

"_—_but I couldn't think of accepting it," she finished. "I was sent to purchase an item, and I was given credits for that purpose. I must know how many to give you."

"I won't take any of them," the young man said, easily enough, but something about his expression brooked no argument.

Exasperated, Padmé flung up her free hand. "Why _not?_ How did you even know I _needed_ a power cell?"

Though the young man's blue eyes shone with mirth, deep within them glowed the fire of a challenge both accepted and welcomed. It was as if he relished combat with such a worthy opponent.

He shrugged. "What, you think you're the first Jedi that's ever walked in this shop? I've seen heaps of your kind before, Angelface."

Padmé narrowed her eyes. "What exactly do you mean by _'my kind'? _And why do you keep calling me that?"

Ignoring the first question, he answered the second. "Why do I keep calling you 'Angelface'?" He shrugged again. "Because you have the face of an angel."

Now Padmé's eyes widened. "The face... of an angel?"

"Yeah. You look like one."

Padmé sputtered. Her eyes darted around the room, unsure of where to land. "And... have you ever actually _seen _an angel?"

The young man shook his head. "No. But I heard from a Corellian spice miner that they're the most beautiful creatures in the galaxy."

For a moment, Padmé's breath caught in her throat. She felt herself reddening. And then, abruptly, she burst into laughter. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "But a _Corellian _spice miner told you this?"

The young man looked at her steadily. "Yeah. When I was nine years old."

Padmé looked at her boots, feeling strangely ashamed of herself. "Well," she said hesitantly. "I don't know what to say to that."

"You must be used to compliments."

"I never know how to take them."

"Say 'thank you'."

Padmé considered the fraying hem of her robe, then looked up at the young man. "Thank you," she said softly. "Thank you for the compliment..." In a horrible moment, she realized she'd forgotten his first name.

"It's Anakin," he said, smiling.

"Thank you... Anakin," she repeated, inclining her head. "For everything."

"It was no trouble at all, Angelface."

Grasping the power cell, Padmé inclined her head again and turned to go. Then, halfway out the door, she spun around, realizing something.

"Wait a minute!"

The young man called Anakin looked up.

"I've had my back to you and my hood on the whole time I've been in here. You didn't even _see _my face until you called me and I turned around. For all you knew, I had the face of a gundark."

For a moment, he merely looked at her. Then he pointed to a small pane of transparisteel adorning the right side of the room. "I saw your face when you passed that window..."_—_he paused to check a wall chrono_—_"...forty-two minutes ago."

"Oh." Padmé blushed. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered.

Grinning, he shrugged his lean shoulders. "Forget it." Reaching for his welding laser, he returned his attention to the crippled homing droid. "Take care of yourself, Angelface. And if you ever need spare parts, I'm your man."

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

_I'm your man... I'm your man..._

The rest of the evening passed in a daze. Padmé didn't really remember restarting her speeder, ascending to the top levels of the city, or returning to the Temple. She couldn't precisely recall walking through its vaulted entryway, using the lift, or even entering the sparse but comfortable quarters she shared with her Master. It had all gone by like a soft mist, and now she sat numbly before her evening meal_—_a curried lentil stew from the previous evening_—_taking slow mouthfuls without tasting them.

"You seem a little preoccupied, Padawan."

Turning, Padmé smiled warmly at her Master, whom she hadn't heard approach. "Not at all."

The older man took his seat, arranging the folds of his robe around him. "Was the day a success?"

She rose to get an empty bowl. "It was, Master. I've finished the first part of my assignment."

"Oh?"

"The diatium power cell was the hardest piece, but I finally found one today. I paid a little visit to the lower levels." Placing the bowl before him, she filled it with a generous amount of steaming stew before returning to her seat.

After silently bowing his head for several moments, he shook it with a wry grin. "Good old Coruscant. Go deep enough, find whatever you want_—_and a lot that you don't."

Padmé nodded her agreement, taking another mouthful of stew.

"Well, that's good news, Padmé," he said after a few spoonfuls, "because I'm going to need your help. I know you aren't enjoying your current assignment, so I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this."

Stifling a sigh, Padmé put down her utensil and gave the older Jedi her full attention. "What would you have me do, Master?"

He paused, steepling his fingers. "You know I've been busy on Kuat, trying to help the local officials reach a settlement. It hasn't gone well. What you may not know is that Kuat Drive Yards sources all our ships and supplies all their parts. But with this... conflict of theirs, they're out of commission for the time being, which grounds all Jedi aircraft indefinitely."

Padmé nodded, fighting back a yawn.

"Our Delta-7s are the hardest-hit, since they're the ones we use most often, and were the last to be upgraded. We can't afford to do without them while Kuat figures itself out. It's part of why I've kept you here on Coruscant. We need to find someone who can help us. Someone local."

Suddenly alert, Padmé froze, hardly daring to breathe.

"So," the older Jedi concluded, "while you do need to finish assembling your lightsaber, now you have a new assignment. I want you to help the Council find an appropriate contractor. Preferably someone who knows a good mechanic."

Instantly and unbidden, the image of Anakin Skywalker flashed up in Padmé's mind.

His laughing blue eyes seemed almost to be daring her.

* * *

·:·


	3. Visions of the Past

·:· ·:·

* * *

In the darkness, she heard him calling her. He wore a delicate mask of finely wrought alabaster, and she ran to him. When he folded her into his arms, she nearly wept from happiness. Shyly, she reached up to caress the exquisite mask. As he took her by the shoulders with thick black gloves, she peered into the artificial face, squinting for a glimpse of reality behind the façade. While she searched, the gloved fingers slid over her shoulders, eased around her neck, and began constricting.

It always happened that way, but she never remembered, and was always shocked. She scrabbled at the hands about her throat, filled with horror as the mask, though remaining stark white, began shifting from lovely into eerie and ominous. Its cheekbones grew cuttingly severe, its mouth drew a gaping grimace, and when two cavernous sockets loomed forth in place of its eyes, she saw it for the skull that it was. The breathing behind it became heavy and mechanical, and as she gasped for air, her own voiceless screams filled her ears.

/_[_ Padmé. _]_/

While she continued to struggle, she felt a wave of calm wash over her, carried by a familiar presence in the Force. Still, her screams grew louder.

/_[_ _Padmé. ]_/

Padmé stretched out with her senses, straining for something beyond her terror.

/_[_ ... Master? _]_/

/_[_ Peace. _]_/

/_[_ I... I can't breathe! He's _choking_ me. _Why? ]_/

/_[_ Calm your mind, Padawan. _]_/

Padmé clawed at her throat. The gloves had dissolved into pitiless obsidian, a skeletal grip sinking into her skin. She kicked out desperately, but her legs hit nothing but air.

/_[_ H e' s _ch o k in g __m e! ]_/

/_[_ He's not real. _Peace, _Padmé. _]_/

_Not real?_

Almost as soon as she thought the words, the vise about her throat eased. But while she was finally able to draw a ragged breath, the terrifying image remained, and her eyes welled with tears.

/_[_ ... I'm afraid. _]_/

/_[_ Your fear makes him stronger. Starve it. 'There is serenity.' _]_/

/_[_ I ... can't ... _]_/

/_[_ Look for the light, Padmé. Remember? _]_/

/_[_ The light? _]_/

/_[_ It will always prevail, Padawan. _]_/

_The light..._

Suddenly remembering, Padmé turned up her right palm. Two specks of bright light shimmered within it, casting a soft glow so lovely that even the garish creature before her now seemed agreeable. She held out her hand in welcome, but it staggered away from her, retreating into the shadows. As she began walking towards it, the tiny lights grew larger and larger, and the frightful vision began melting away. Just before it dissolved completely, she had a fleeting impression of a beautiful young man—she could never make out his face—reaching for her with slender fingers, then disappearing in a flash of blinding white.

The oddest part of the dream came just before she woke from it. Instead of feeling relieved by her attacker's disappearance, she found herself filled with incomprehensible sadness. A terrible, yearning ache filled her heart, climbed up her throat, and woke her with wracking sobs.

**.**

·:·

_**·**_

Alone in the Council chamber, the Jedi Master considered. There were still a few hours before the first session convened, so he had the place to himself. In the dim predawn light, the chamber looked even solemner than usual. He glanced at the chairs, and the chairs glanced back. He smiled, enjoying the quiet.

Carefully, he reached through the bond he shared with his Padawan, flinching against the anguish he still sensed there. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. It had been several years since Padmé had last had the nightmare.

_You really should've let her handle it_, he chided himself. _She'll have to face it on her own one day._

He shook his head ruefully. It was wrong to feel so protective of her. A Jedi knew no attachment. Still...

Easing back in his chair, he called to mind the first moment he'd seen her.

**.**

·:· ·:·

_**·**_

Galactic news pundits put it all to retribution for past wrongs, but everyone knew it was Nute Gunray. For while it was undeniable that belittling portrayals of Gungan civilization had ever been a hallmark of human Naboo lore, they had never approached the virulent strain of speciesism depicted by the Trade Federation. And though there had always been contention between human and Gungan Naboo, and the offensive propaganda had only sparked the conflagration, when the "secret reports" were "leaked" to Boss Nass, and the Gungans vowed war, everyone knew it was the Trade Federation that pledged their support, their protection, and their weapons. Everyone knew it was their newly-minted droid army that invaded Theed, deposing King Veruna and installing Boss Nass in his stead. Everyone knew it was Viceroy Gunray that held the real reins of power over the planet now, and even the most bombastic of holonet broadcasters privately held him culpable for the entire tragedy. But that hadn't saved Naboo.

Though the civil war raged for several months, Gunray's victory was certain from the start, and when the human Naboo resistance finally fell, it collapsed utterly, with little left for the droid army to do but sift through the carnage for exploitable survivors. Within weeks of the climax of their bloody coup against the humans, fissures began among the Gungans themselves, and by the turn of the year, the planet resembled a military autocracy, with wealth and privilege for an elite Gungan caste, despair and poverty for the remaining masses, and absolute power in the hands of Nute Gunray.

With a few notable exceptions, the Jedi had felt it best not to intervene. After all, the conflict appeared an internal affair, which rendered Jedi interference inappropriate. But as the months passed and the death toll of both human and Gungan Naboo continued to rise, the Jedi came to realize that what they were witnessing was the potential extermination of not one, but two species. Concluding that to do nothing was to share the blame, they dispatched two Knights to restore order to the stricken planet.

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

The afternoon light was fading from its sky when two men stepped into the remains of a lovely home. It had been a long day.

"I sense a living being," announced Mace Windu.

"We won't hurt you, little one," his companion called softly.

Mace looked at him curiously, and Qui-Gon Jinn grinned.

"_I _sense a little girl."

Stretching beyond their sight, the two Jedi peered through the gloom. Though debris was all that met their vision, they made their way steadily toward a large heap of rubble in the corner of the room.

Mace pointed. "There."

Slowly, they approached the center of the life force they sensed shining in the darkness like a beacon. They were less than a meter from it when they heard a soft gasp, and the rubble quivered. It was only then that they realized what it was.

"A protection bubble," whispered Qui-Gon, and Mace nodded. But before they could discuss the matter further, the makeshift cave collapsed. Acting quickly, Mace dove into the crumbling pile, pulled out the small being—who was indeed a little girl—and flung her safely clear of the falling debris. She opened her mouth to scream, realized she was floating to the ground rather than hurtling towards it, and snapped it shut again. But the instant her bare feet touched the ground, she took off running.

Mace rolled his eyes. "I should have kept her in the air. We don't have time for this, Qui-Gon."

"Stop, please," Qui-Gon called.

Incredibly, the young girl did, turning to peer up at the Jedi with large brown eyes. They were so large, they almost swallowed up her face, and so brown that they were what honey would be when it grew older. Directly beneath her button nose was a small, dark pink mouth that frowned at them.

"What is your name, little one?"

She was silent for a few moments, and when she finally spoke, the two men barely heard her. "I'm Padmé," she whispered, shivering in her thin garment.

Qui-Gon gestured at the remnants of the protection bubble. "Did you do this by yourself, Padmé?"

She nodded.

Mace crouched down to her level. "How?"

"Because it was—the monsters were coming, and I was scared, and they hit my mommy and knocked down my daddy, and then they took Sola and I ran." She scowled. "I think they broke our house."

"_Broke _it?"

"How?"

She furrowed her brow, clearly trying to make sense of the incomprehensible. "I was running," she said thoughtfully, "and the monsters were chasing me. They took Sola, and I was scared. I had a big _mad,_ too. I had a big mad, and it got bigger and bigger until it broke our house." She looked up, shocked. "_I _broke our house." Her lower lip trembled.

Silently, Qui-Gon Jinn knelt and held open his arms. The young girl stepped into them, sniffling.

With an arm propping up his elbow, Mace Windu stroked his chin. "How did you survive?"

Again, Padmé's small brow furrowed in thought. "It was... my mad broke our house, and big rocks fell." She looked up fiercely. "They got the monsters." Slowly, her gaze fell to her lap. "They got my mommy and daddy too. And Sola. They got everybody but me." She paused. "They tried to get me, but I pushed."

The two Jedi exchanged glances.

"Padmé," Qui-Gon said carefully, turning her to meet his eyes, "can you show us _how _you pushed?"

She worked her mouth noiselessly for a few moments, then nodded. Moving away from him, she headed towards a pile of rubble in the middle of what appeared to have once been the dining area. Screwing up her face, she stretched out her hands and strained against the haze-filled emptiness for several moments, but the rubble remained motionless.

Panting, she shook her head. "I can't," she said sadly. "I need a big mad."

Mace frowned. "Has this ever happened before?"

"No." Padmé looked at her hands in wonder. "Today was the first day." Suddenly, her face crumpled, and her eyes welled up. "I got everybody," she sobbed. "It was me." Tears streaked down her face.

"You should rest, little one," Qui-Gon said, gently drawing her back into his arms. "You need your strength."

As if on cue, Padmé yawned hugely. Then she frowned, wiping the tears from her dust-smeared cheeks. "No. My mommy made me take a nap, and then the monsters came. I want to stay up."

"Sleep," commanded Mace, and Padmé's eyes slipped closed.

Qui-Gon Jinn glanced up at him. "Was that really necessary?"

"I need to think."

Nodding, Jinn tucked his legs beneath him, cradling the young girl close. "Well?"

"This child..." Mace began, then stopped himself. "It's highly unusual. I don't think it's ever happened before."

"What hasn't?"

"This trauma seems to have triggered some kind of latent Force ability."

Qui-Gon looked at her in pity, stroking the hair from her clammy forehead. "So young to have already brushed with the Dark Side."

"It's dangerous," Mace said grimly. "We need to figure out what to do with her."

Looking up again, Qui-Gon met his gaze evenly. "You speak as though we had multiple options. Clearly, we can't just leave her here."

"Of course not."

"What, then?"

"We take her off-planet to a stable world. We put her in a care facility. She'll be safe there."

Qui-Gon frowned. "Any ability she possesses, however latent, will pose a danger to her if left unhoned." He looked again at the sleeping figure. "Mace, if we don't train her, someone else will."

Mace shrugged. "That's not up to us."

Qui-Gon set his jaw. "We've found her. Doesn't that make her our responsibility? _Look _at her. How can you think of leaving her?"

"I never did. I said we should take her somewhere safe."

Qui-Gon fell into a stony silence.

Sighing, Mace eased to the fragmented tile beneath his boots. "I know what you think: that I don't have a heart. It's not true. I see exactly what you see—a little girl, alone, afraid, trapped in a power she doesn't understand. I _feel._" He tapped his chest for emphasis. "But unlike you, I look beyond my feelings and consider the will of the Force. Where would we be if we picked up every child we found?" He placed a hand on his companion's shoulder. "We can't save everyone, Qui."

"We can save _her,_" Qui-Gon said firmly.

Taking back his hand, Mace shook his head. It was really no use debating a matter when Qui-Gon got like this. Beneath a quiet exterior, the Jedi Knight was irretrievably stubborn, and once he'd set his mind on something, all the gales of Haruun Kal wouldn't sway it. Wearily, Mace massaged his temples. "Fine. We take her to Coruscant. Then what?"

Qui-Gon fingered his beard thoughtfully, then tucked a strand of short brown hair behind his ear. "I would gladly train her myself. But I'm only allowed one Padawan at a time, and Obi-Wan's not yet fifteen. It will be some time before he's ready to take the Trials."

Mace thought for a moment. "She can't be over four standard years. That would make her an Initiate. We can put her in the charge of Master Yoda."

Qui-Gon nodded his agreement, then looked back down at the sleeping child, who was shifting restlessly. She gave a few groans, trembled, and then her wide brown eyes flew open. Peering into the faces of the two Jedi, she looked accusingly from one to the other.

"Child," said Mace, not unkindly, "would you like to go to Coruscant?"

She blinked. "What's... Coorsant?"

Qui-Gon smiled. "It's where Jedi are made."

She frowned. "What's a Jedi?"

"Us," Mace said simply.

Padmé considered. "Are there monsters there?"

"Yes," Mace conceded. "But you don't have to be afraid of them."

"We'll take care of you, little one."

She hesitated for an instant, then smiled. "Okay."

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

As the Jedi Master's thoughts wandered over the past two decades, he couldn't hold back his pride at what a competent young woman the precocious little girl had become. He shook his head sadly.

_Pretty funny, Qui-Gon. You were the one that didn't want to leave her, and I'm the one who stayed._

Enough. He shook his head once more, dispelling the memories. And as the rosy hues of Coruscant's synthetic dawn streaked golden into the Council chamber, Mace Windu again reached through the Force for his Padawan. This time, he was pleased to find her calm and composed.

/_[_ Padmé. _]_/

/_[_ Yes, Master? _]_/

/_[_ It's time. _]_/

* * *

·:· ·:·


	4. The Commander's Commission

·:· ·:· ·:·

* * *

With waves of mid-morning light glinting on their backs, twelve stern chairs hugged the seamless curve of the Council chamber. In them sat twelve Jedi Masters of varying ages, abilities, and homeworlds, each gazing at the couple before them with calm intensity. Countless specks of metallic shine hung motionless in the pensive air, as if the universe and time itself awaited the judgment of the Twelve. It was very quiet.

_Whenever you're ready, Masters,_ thought Padmé. _Sometime this century would be great._

She was thoroughly ready for the day to end, though it had barely begun. She'd awoken in a puddle of tears with her head pounding and her heart a fist in her chest, and things hadn't improved from there. After spending a standard half-hour fretting over which of her few simple garments flattered her most—_Why? _she'd kept asking herself—she had finally settled upon a fitted cream tunic with matching trousers under a robe of faded brown. After quickly dressing and answering her master's call, she'd made for the spartan dining area, suddenly ravenous. The steaming cup of herbed tea had been all right, but the half-bowl of grainmeal had been a mistake. She'd barely made it to the 'fresher in time.

Back in the Council chamber, Padmé mentally shook herself. _Why do I always forget? I knew about the dream when I woke up. Wet pillow, aching head, and then vomit. It's always the same._

As surreptitiously as possible, she pulled her robe a bit closer in an effort to hide the stained tunic beneath. There hadn't been time to change. For at least the dozenth time, she reminded herself that her appearance was highly irrelevant to the situation at hand. For at least the dozenth time, it didn't help.

The young mechanic had dressed up, too, after a fashion. He wasn't exactly Senatorial, but he had starched his shirt, shined his boots, and combed his hair. Padmé again had to admit he looked handsome. But though she'd spent the greater portion of the morning dreading him being overly familiar, he surprised her by being strictly professional, almost drolly so. In fact, other than a brief bow of formal greeting, he studiously avoided looking at her.

Padmé grimaced at the faintly sour taste of bile stubbornly clinging to her mouth. If not for it, she could have convinced herself she'd only imagined the dream. Naturally, she couldn't remember any of it now; only that she'd had it, and that it had been terrifying. She stifled a sigh, feeling fatigued and irritable. What were they waiting for?

A soft clearing of the young man's throat startled her from her thoughts. From the corner of her left eye, she could just make out the slightest fidget. The Council's silent scrutiny was finally beginning to get to him, as it got to everyone, eventually. Still, the young man had lasted longer than most, and even now remained relatively composed. Each of the Jedi Masters nodded their acknowledgement in turn. The verbal portion of the interview would now commence.

"Your name, young man?"

The applicant started at the sudden question, but looked relieved to be invited to speak at last. "Commander Anakin Skywalker, Master Jedi."

Glancing at Padmé, Ki-Adi-Mundi raised an eyebrow. "We were not informed of your rank… Commander."

"I have none. The title is an honorary gesture."

Another moment's pause, and Adi Gallia tipped her head to one side. "Then you must have powerful friends," she suggested, turning her hypnotic gaze upon him.

Anakin bowed.

"Yet you would spend your days toiling in the bowels of ailing machinery?" inquired Plo Koon.

"Rankless titles don't generally keep the synth-lights on, Master Jedi."

"Indeed," agreed Kit Fisto.

"Quite," concurred Yarael Poof.

Saesee Tinn gave a slow blink of his pale yellow eyes and said nothing. Favoring telepathy over the spoken word, the occasional subtle facial gesture was as far as he tended to go in the way of physical communication. Still, he appeared to have effectively transmitted his meaning, and Ki-Adi-Mundi nodded briefly at him before again fixing his gaze upon the candidate.

"Are you familiar with the inner workings of the Delta-7 light interceptor, Commander Skywalker?"

"I've never seen one before."

The Cerean Master regarded him skeptically. "You have no experience whatever?"

"None with this particular model, no," the young man admitted. Then he straightened his shoulders. "But I'm fully confident I can fix it. I can fix anything."

_'An honorary gesture'?_ Padmé thought in bewilderment. _'Fully confident'? Who_ is _this man?_

While the majority of the room's occupants eyed the young man doubtfully, Kit Fisto's teeth gleamed. "Anything?"

Pivoting to meet Kit's eyes, Anakin returned the grin. "Anything. I constructed a protocol droid at seven, custom-built a podracer at eight, and won the Boonta Eve with it at nine." He placed his hands in his pockets. "I've only improved since then."

Kit's smile broadened. "Confident."

Again, Anakin mirrored the expression. "Usually."

"A not undesirable trait when kept in check," Depa Billaba acknowledged, her soft voice shifting Anakin's attention to the opposite end of the Chamber. "But you will likely find this task requires a greater finesse than your youngling projects, Commander Skywalker."

The young man inclined his head. "Perhaps you'd wish a demonstration of my abilities?"

"That won't be necessary, Commander," replied Eeth Koth. "We are aware of your mechanical aptitude."

"It is your character we now examine," said Shaak Ti.

Anakin returned his hands to his sides and stood a bit straighter. "Have you reached a conclusion?"

There was another general pause as the august body thought this over. When this second lengthy silence at last ended, it was Even Piell who broke it, vocalizing what the entire body most wished to know.

"How, precisely, did you come to possess this...honorific, Commander Skywalker?"

Anakin stiffened. "It was bestowed on me by his Excellency, the Supreme High Chancellor."

"Why?" Mace asked bluntly.

A shadow passed over the young man's face. "I was of some assistance to him a few years ago."

"And assist _us, _you now can," Yoda put in smoothly. "Our thanks to you go, Commander Skywalker."

For the first time in the entire proceedings, the young man allowed himself a glimpse of Padmé. "I assure you, Master Jedi, the pleasure is mine."

It had been the briefest of glances, and the young man's tone had been utterly professional. Still, Mace Windu had seen it, and he hadn't liked it. Abruptly, he peered at his Padawan, but Padmé's face held nothing which warranted suspicion. Resignation. Perhaps boredom. But nothing overtly inappropriate.

Nodding approvingly, Mace resettled himself in his council chair. There was nothing to worry about.

**.**

·:·

_**·**_

As they descended in a turbolift, Padmé found herself becoming increasingly annoyed. "What was that all about?" she demanded. "Where did you learn noblespeak? And what's this 'Commander' business? I thought you were a mechanic."

Anakin grinned. "I am."

"'You are,'" she echoed peevishly. "You are _what? _A Commander, or a mechanic?"

The young man quirked a brow. "Aren't we full of questions today."

Padmé frowned, then stabbed at the control panel. Two gleaming concave halves slid noiselessly apart, and she stalked out, leaving the young man to follow her down an echoing corridor. "I just don't like being tricked. Deception is the way of the Dark Side."

"I'm not a member of your Order," Anakin reminded her, easily matching her rapid strides. "But who said anything about 'deception'?"

"You told me you were a mechanic!"

"_Did _I tell you that?"

Pausing before the Temple's vaulted main entrance, Padmé considered. Had the young man actually told her his profession?

"No," she finally admitted, walking on and descending a slew of wide marble steps. "I inferred it. Why else would you be working on a broken droid in the middle of a grimy parts shop?"

Directly before them, hovering above the duracrete like an inky patch of liquid shadow, shone an opulent obsidian airspeeder. Anakin opened its door, folded himself in, and grinned. "Because it's my shop."

And off he sped, leaving Padmé gaping.

* * *

·:· ·:· ·:·


	5. Duracrete Day

·:· ·:· ·:· ·:·

* * *

When the call came, they all protested. It was barely detectable, but it was still a protest. While most—though not all—would comply in the end, it would only be after a fair bit of grumbling. In the meantime, though little in stance or countenance gave them away, had the Dark Lord of the Sith been privy to their thoughts, he surely would have smirked at such insubordinations as, _But we're busy!_, _Doesn't the Council understand?,_ and _Why __now__?_ Even without such clairvoyance, he might have contented himself in speculating on which subtle obstinacies had given rise to the furrowed brows, cupped chins, and pale lekku plainly visible in the myriad starfighter transports scattered through the far reaches of space as the Jedi went about their missions.

When the call came, one such transport had nearly arrived at its destination.

.

·:·

·

Aayla Secura furrowed her brow. Leaning forward, she reactivated the holotransmitter. A slim purple figure crackled into view, and the holotransmitter obediently replayed the message.

"Greetings, fellow Jedi. By Council resolution, all Jedi starfighters will return to Coruscant for emergency repairs, effective immediately. I repeat, _all _Jedi starfighters will immediately return to Coruscant. May the Force be with you. Fly well."

The hooded figure inclined its head, the image crackled out, and that was that.

Aayla's frown deepened.

"'Fresher's free," came a rich baritone, and a broad-shouldered man strode into the cockpit. Easing into the copilot's seat, he reached back to gather several coils of tightly matted hair, pivoted towards Aayla, and let the damp locks slip from his fingers. "What's got you looking like a krek under a boot? What do you have there?"

For an answer, Aayla played the transmission for the third time. At its end, she glanced up quickly enough to spot a few telltale creases in the gold band tattooed beneath her companion's brown eyes before he smoothed them away with a blink.

"Huh," said Quinlan Vos.

Aayla was still frowning. "I do not understand, Master."

Reaching up again, he calmly tied back his hair. "You can stop with the 'Master', Aayla. You've been a Knight for several months now."

"Habit." She jerked her chin towards the space where the image had been. "What do we do?"

Quinlan was suddenly very busy at the controls, his tunic pulling over the muscles of his back as he flipped levers and checked indicators. "You heard Mace, Aayla. We fly the 'fighters to Coruscant for emergency repairs." A pause. "'Immediately.'"

Aayla drew a long, slow breath, inwardly calling upon the Force for serenity. "Now? In the middle of a mission?"

"Apparently."

The crease between Aayla's brows deepened still further. "But nothing is wrong with our starfighters, Master," she pointed out with admirable placidity. "We are already 'flying well.'"

Quinlan slid into a crouch, reached beneath the console to tinker with a few hidden panels, and said nothing.

"There is something else behind this," Aayla pursued.

"Probably. But it's not our job to ask those questions."

At this point, Aayla's mouth drew into something very near a pout. "Master, it has taken us months to locate our target, weeks to infiltrate his network, and days to conceal our starfighters on this junker. If we return to Coruscant, we may never find him again." Then her pale lekku brightened a bit. "Perhaps we might return _after _we have captured him?"

The band of coils shook decisively, nearly brushing the floor. "Mace said now." Another pause. "But this is a nice change. I never thought I'd have to remind you of our duty to obey the Council. It's usually the other way around."

A barely audible huff. "Well. I am more like you than I thought."

There was a muffled chuckle, and then Quinlan emerged from beneath the console, wiping his hands on his tunic as he returned to his seat. "I hope not."

Aayla returned her attention to the empty holotransmitter. The fact that she didn't pick it up and hurl it across the cockpit was a credit to her training.

Leaning over, Quinlan turned her chair to face him. "I know what this means to you, Aayla. I want that scum cleaned off your homeworld as badly as you do." He set his jaw. "But Ryloth will be here when we get back, and unfortunately, the spice lords will be, too. We'll handle them. Don't worry."

Nodding stiffly, Aayla moved to turn her chair away. But Quinlan caught her by the hand, mid-motion, and peered into her hazel eyes. It was the searching, intense gaze of a master scrutinizing his pupil.

"Okay?"

The former Padawan took a deep breath. _So be the will of the Force._ "Yes, Master," Aayla Secura said aloud, and meant it.

Quinlan nodded. "Okay." Tossing her hand back to her, he moved to power up the navigator. "Come on, kid. Let's go home."

**.**

·:· ·:·

_**·**_

"My lord, all of the Jedi starfighters have been recalled to Coruscant."

"Excellent. Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen."

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

When the attack came, Anakin's first thought was that he should have known better. He knew where he lived. The characteristics of the district that had appealed to him as a newcomer to Coruscant—its distance from upper-level intrigues, its lack of pretension, its gruff anonymity—were the same traits that made the current circumstances laughably predictable. The price of solitude was the occasional 'situation', but Anakin usually managed to hear trouble coming and avoid it.

It was the third night of the week, however, and as was their custom, the Coruscant Sanitation Droids were out in force, filling the haze with fastidious whirrings, dutifully scrubbing worn duracrete until it shone pewter in the flickering light. Such was the Galactic Capital's efficiency that even its underbelly benefited from the antiseptic zeal of its upper levels. In truth, the Capital would have been well pleased to scrub "that Twilighter filth" from the duracrete as well, but that was beyond the scope of the sani-droids. Indeed, the droids' noisy activity achieved the opposite effect, as unscrupulous individuals invariably made use of Duracrete Day to arrange their sordid affairs in plain sight of surveillance holocams, confident the din would drown their secrets.

In short, the stage had been well-set for a catastrophe, but Anakin had been too preoccupied to notice, his mind filled with the events of the day and plans for the next—and with her, of course; more than he cared to admit.

She was even lovelier than he'd first thought. If the task of her simple garments had been to mask her beauty, they had done a poor job of it that morning. Thick as it was, her tunic's rough folds couldn't entirely hide the comely form beneath them. Her sturdy boots hinted at slight calves and slim ankles, and the coarse fabric belted tightly around her slender waist hadn't helped matters. Furthermore, she'd put her hood back as the Masters entered the chamber, revealing what would have been a riot of tawny-brown curls, now constricted into a becoming series of intricately braided knots, each as tightly wound as their mistress appeared to be. A few austere-looking beads adorned the Jedi braid which brushed past her left shoulder, completing the effect.

It'd been all Anakin could do not to stare at her outright.

Now, per his arrangement with the Jedi Masters, he was due to report back to the Temple the following morning at 0530. Anakin didn't normally keep such early hours, and he'd never heard of a professional who did. He concluded it was probably another test of character, and chuckled at the irony. The real test would be getting him to focus on his assignment rather than on the attractive young woman assigned to oversee it.

A faint unease pricked the back of his neck as he cut through a dimly-lit speeder lot. But since a sheen had broken on his forehead when he'd first thought of her, he dismissed it as adrenaline.

_Relax, Skywalker_, he thought wryly, making for a narrow alleyway. _You're just there to do a job. Padawan Naberrie has nothing to do with it. You probably won't even see her that often._

But the inner recesses of his mind whispered that he hoped he would.

Shaking his head, he continued toward home, his boots making slight squelching sounds on the dewy shine of freshly scrubbed duracrete. A few tendrils of antiseptic fog curled about him, and bright flecks of 'crete synthminerals glittered faintly beneath him in the weary light.

He'd just settled his pack more comfortably on his shoulders when he heard a blaster clip slide into place behind him.

* * *

·:· ·:· ·:· ·:·


	6. Reminders

**·:·:·**

* * *

"Hands up, pretty-boy," a husky voice rasped from the shadows, and Anakin instantly realized his error. He'd been a fool to underestimate the dark alley he passed through every evening, especially when all of the warning signs had been there. In these parts, a moment's distraction often meant death, but he'd been too absorbed in his thoughts to remember it.

Inwardly kicking himself, he froze. "I don't want any trouble."

Claws clicked on the 'crete behind him as his assailant stepped closer. "Good to know you speak Basic." A cool bit of metal niggled between his shoulders. "Hands up, or I'll blast them off."

With a sigh, Anakin brought both palms to the back of his neck. "Fine."

He'd no sooner complied than he found himself being marched at blasterpoint to an even more secluded area of the dank alleyway. At last, the clicking stopped. "Turn around, pretty-boy," the creature growled, favoring Anakin's fingers with a puff of warm air in the process. "Slowly. I might let you live."

Keeping his hands clasped behind his head, Anakin obeyed, gradually pivoted, and found himself looking down the blasterrifle barrel of a male Trandoshan in a yellow jumpsuit. "Yeah?" he drawled.

The humanoid cocked his head to one side. "You've disrupted some very important business, pretty-boy." Two red eyes narrowed into glowing slits. "Got a name?"

"Lars Windlighter," Anakin said smoothly.

The Trandoshan gave a series of panting wheezes that Anakin eventually recognized as laughter. "Seems every planet I land, I meet a Windlighter."

Anakin shrugged. "Big family."

The Trandoshan wheezed a bit more. "Sure," he hissed, baring his teeth in what would probably have been a smirk in a near-human. As matters stood, the grimace appeared distinctly unfriendly. The blasterrifle remained where it hung. "What's in the pack, pretty-boy?"

Anakin winked. "Dinner. You like Corellian?"

The Trandoshan's tongue flicked impressively, making the hissing more pronounced. "I like cutting Corellians into s-s-steak when they cheat me at S-s-sabaac."

"Gotcha. Good to know." Anakin's shoulders were beginning to burn. Leaving his hands where they were, he leaned against the worn durabrick.

The Trandoshan's red eyes narrowed even further at this, and he flicked his tongue for several moments in silence. "Well, _Windlighter_," he said at last. "We don't like snoops. So we're gonna teach you a lesson. No charge."

_"We"? _thought Anakin.

"Hey, Jakk!" Here the captor managed to jerk his knobby head over one shoulder while keeping his eyes and blasterrifle trained on Anakin. "Help me scrub the 'crete with pretty-boy here. Looks like the sanis missed a spot."

After a moment's pause, a tall, rail-thin figure stepped into the light of one of the alley's few functioning glowpanels. He was clad entirely in white and deathly pale, with sleek cheekbones and a prominent nose that appeared to have been broken at least twice. A shock of platinum hair contrasted vividly with a pair of deep-set, dark-brown eyes that peered from beneath hooded lids. He had a trim blond goatee, several scars, a pointed chin, and a very small, very pink mouth; so small and so pink, in fact, that the rich bass voice flowing from it seemed almost ludicrous.

"Nice you finally asked me to the party," he rumbled, glancing briefly at the Trandoshan. Then the incongruously dark gaze fell upon Anakin. "Lars Windlighter?"

Anakin grunted.

The new arrival narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly.

The Trandoshan hefted his blasterrifle. "Enough talk. Time for _Lars _here to find out why pretty-boys and vibroblades don't mix."

His companion gave a low chuckle. "Watch your mouth."

A wheezing snort. "At least you got scars and a busted nose. _Pretty_-boy here is pathetic." The red eyes slanted sideways. "All that sweet, smooth skin, Jakk. Let's give him something to remember us by."

In an impossibly quick motion, the man called Jakk pulled a vibroblade from a hidden panel in his tunic, flipped it through the cool air, and thumbed it on. But then he paused. Again, the dark eyes slid slowly over Anakin, and this time, the pale brows above them knitted. Finally, with a terse nod, he thumbed off his vibroblade.

An impatient clack on the duracrete. "Well?"

Jakk's lips peeled into a grin nearly as frightening as his companion's. "I called this meeting. So I'll rearrange this space waste." Turning to the Trandoshan, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You load the rest of the spice. I'll meet you on Ryloth."

The Trandoshan's tongue flicked uncertainly. "The boss said, 'No talkers.'"

Jakk cracked his neck. "I'll make sure he don't talk."

The red eyes seemed to glow brighter as the humanoid's gaze shifted from companion to captive. Then he holstered his blasterrifle with a shrug. "Fine. But this gets back to the Guild, we never had this conversation. In fact"—here the tongue flicked out again—"this-s-s gets back to the Guild, I don't even know your name."

Jakk's grin was feral now. "Yeah. I'd do the same for you, Bossk."

The creature called Bossk held up a bony green finger. "Five days, Jakk. I won't wait." Then, with another shrug, he clicked off into the shadows.

The dark gaze flickered with something akin to mirth. "Turn around, Windlighter."

With obvious reluctance, Anakin complied. "Look, uh, Jakk. I don't want any trouble. I live here, all right?"

Jakk gave him a shove. "Shut up and keep walking."

Once again, Anakin found himself being marched down the dim alleyway, this time by vibroblade. Every few meters, Jakk gave him a prod between the shoulders with the hilt of his weapon, and Anakin moved a bit faster, all the while listening as the echoing clicks of Bossk's claws grew fainter and fainter. By the time they had faded to silence, the two men had reached the end of the alleyway, which doubled as the entrance to another nearly-deserted speeder lot. His hands still behind his head, Anakin took a few more steps, then let the next of Jakk's nudges push him into a fall. Rolling forward, he slid from his pack, twisted, kicked Jakk's long legs from under him, and hammered him in his surprisingly-solid side, knocking the blade from his hand. In a matter of seconds, the would-be captor lay prostrate on the damp duracrete, with Anakin expertly tossing the 'blade from one hand to the other.

After a few stunned moments, Jakk propped himself up, then gingerly got to his feet. "Easy, Skywalker," he said, raising both palms. "I don't want to fight."

"Oh, no?" Anakin purred. Then he blinked. _"Skywalker"?_

Jakk cracked his jaw, then winced. "Bossk was bad news. Thought I'd better get you away from him before we chit-chat."

Anakin met the dark eyes in confusion. "Who _are_ you?"

The man called Jakk beamed. "Favjak Trystian," he rumbled, slapping his chest with both hands and immediately wincing again. Rubbing his rib cage, he nodded at the vibroblade in Anakin's grasp. "Nice trick."

.

·:·

·

_A cantina in Mos Espa. A boy of fourteen sits alone in a booth, gazing intently at the stack of sabacc cards in front of him, studying the varying responses different hands produce in him and scanning the room for corresponding responses in others. From time to time, he takes a swig of his ryll beer. He's too young to have any, but a few credits here and there keep the right people quiet. For the dozenth time, he tosses the sun-bleached strands from his eyes, then pauses, mid-gesture, his blue eyes fixed on a nearby figure._

_The figure, a tall, sleepy-eyed man in his early twenties, lounges against an alcove bar with a wupiupi stack propped in his fingers, rapidly flipping the top coin beneath the others with amazing dexterity. Slick coils of shiny black hair perfectly complement his dark, deep-set eyes and full, red lips, and his skin is a honeyed brown just deep enough to make one wonder what sector he's from. With a foot propped behind him, he leans on the bar, scanning the crowd, wrinkling his nose at the attractive barmaid pretending not to eye him. After a few moments, sensing the boy's gaze upon him, he pauses, mid-coin-flip, and gives a nod of acknowledgement._

_The boy grins. "Nice trick."_

.

·:· ·:·

·

Anakin's jaw dropped. "Favio?"

With a hearty laugh, Favjak slapped him on the shoulder, then pulled him into a tight embrace. "Hey, it's Skywalker, in the flesh! What's it been—five years?"

"Or something," Anakin agreed, returning the hug. Then he pulled back with a grin. "What happened to you? You look…I mean, I barely recognize you."

Favjak made a face. "Cosmetic surgery. Had to do it. Not happy about it."

Nodding, Anakin reached for his pack and began walking through the speeder lot again, this time keeping his senses keen. "You still gaming podraces?"

"Nah, that's over now," Favjak said, falling into step beside him. "Too many fatalities. Bad for business."

"Sebulba still playing 'fair'?"

Favjak shook his head. "He booked it three solstices ago."

"Lost?"

Pausing mid-stride, he glanced at Anakin. "Dead, man. Vibroblade to the spine. You didn't hear?"

Anakin shook his head. "I was gone by then," he said quietly. "Guess he finally crossed the wrong racer." He looked grimly at the vibroblade in his own hand. "I say he got off good after what he did to Kitster."

Favjak grunted.

By now, the two men had approached a series of stone steps leading to the landing of an immense starscraper stretching needle-like into the air as far as the eye could see.

Anakin sank to the curb with a sigh. "I wish Kits hadn't entered that race. He never had a chance." Fiddling with the vibroblade, he worked his jaw, then swallowed. "I wish I could have stopped him."

"Not your fault, Skywalker. You told him not to take that bet." Joining him on the curb, Favjak reached into another hidden panel of his garments. "Cheer up, Ani-man. Roll you some spice?"

"Not my poison, Favio."

"Suit yourself," Favjak replied, and Anakin handed him back his vibroblade. "Thanks." After pocketing the weapon, he sprinkled a pinch of glittering purple into a bit of opaque paper, deftly rolled the glit-stick, and lit it. "So. What are you doing on this rock, anyway? Not spice-dealing, I take it."

Anakin's eyes narrowed slightly. "I told you, I live here." A pause. "You?"

The hooded eyelids flicked over in Anakin's direction, then dropped back down. "I'm here on business. As you saw." He took another drag of spice, then licked his lower lip. "Also, friend asked me to visit her while I was in the system." The dark eyes glowed. "Close friend."

Anakin chuckled. "You always were a krayt with the ladies, Favio."

A puff of spice smoke and a red-lipped smile. "Said the pretty-boy to the pirate." With that, Favjak rose to his feet. "Anyway, this is my stop, too. Come up for a bit, Anakin. The lady won't mind. Let's have a round of Sabaac, for old time's sake."

Anakin stiffened. "I don't play anymore."

Favjak's eyes went wide. "Well, ship me to Socorro," he breathed. "What happened?"

Anakin swallowed. "I lost."

The shrewd dark gaze regarded him for several moments, but when it was obvious no further explanation was forthcoming, Favjak merely shrugged. "Well, that's a shame, Skywalker. You were one of the best."

Anakin looked away. "What about you? Why are you in spice?"

Favjak looked at him curiously. "For the credits, of course."

"You made pretty good with Sabacc."

"Too dicey. Spice is cold, hard cash. I can get ten thousand credits in a single run, if I live to claim them."

"If you live," Anakin agreed. "Is it really worth it, Favio? You must be wanted on several worlds."

"Twenty-eight."

Anakin laughed. "That few?"

Glancing at the back of his nearly translucent hand, Favjak grimaced. "I don't dye my skin 'cause I like the color."

"You look good. But why not just get a real job?"

"No skills."

"You could settle down with one of your women."

A snort. "That'd be a bigger gamble."

Anakin looked away again. "Maybe."

Sinking back to the curb, Favjak propped his knuckles beneath his cheekbone and took another drag of spice. "I'm not like you, Ani-man. I don't have super powers. I'm just a simple man trying to make my way in this place."

"Famous last words, Favio."

"That's why it's good to have friends in high places. As you know. I hear you got a friend in the highest place of all."

Anakin rolled his eyes. "Don't believe everything you read on the Holonet."

The stark face grew even graver. "Be careful, Anakin. Politicians, they're worse than crime lords. They turn on you, their world is your enemy."

A terse smile. "I'm fine."

Favjak seemed about to reply, but appeared to think better of it. "Right," he conceded, stubbing out his spice. He'd just begun flipping the charred remains through his long fingers when a muted beep sounded from within yet another hidden panel of his garments. Reaching into it, he pulled out a slim comlink, his gaze flicking down to peer at it through heavy lashes. Then his lips quirked. "See?" He held out the comlink. "I'm a wanted man, Skywalker."

Grinning, Anakin shook his head. "You'd better not keep her waiting."

"Too true. These Twi'lek females…they get mad, and"—he let out a low whistle—"It ain't pretty." A clap on the shoulder beside him, and Favjak rose to his feet. "I'll see you, Anakin. Be well."

"Take care, Favio."

As Favjak began ascending the steps, Anakin stood up as well, pulling on the straps of his pack. He'd just started making his way towards the south entrance of the starscraper when a booming laugh rang out behind him. He turned to see Favjak standing on the last step before the north landing, his white garments fluttering in the mist.

"Hey, Ani-man!"

"Yeah?"

Through the haze, Anakin could just make out a wink. "You see any Windlighters, tell them to keep an eye out on Duracrete Day."

Grinning, Anakin hoisted his pack a bit higher. "I'll do that. Stay pretty, Favio."

"Right back atcha, kid."

.

·:· ·:· ·:·

·

It took twenty standard minutes and two turbo-lifts to get to the flat, but in the three years Anakin had lived there, he'd never minded the trip. The nicest places in the starscraper were above the two-hundredth floor, and even if the flat had been shabbier, the view from its balcony would have warranted a much longer journey. From it, Anakin could drink in all of the beauty of Coruscant's upper levels with none of their stuffiness. He was sorry to be moving away. But Palpatine asked so little of him that when the Chancellor did occasionally make a formal request, Anakin felt duty-bound to honor it.

"I just can't bear the thought of your being subjected to the mercies of ruffians and thugs, my boy," the older man had explained over a recent 'lunch' that was really more of a banquet.

"But Chancellor," Anakin protested, "I _like_ where I live."

"Tut, tut," Palpatine had replied, topping up Anakin's tulip glass of Dantooine ale. "I'm quite sure it's lovely. But I'd rest a great deal easier if I knew you were out of harm's way."

Anakin made a face around his mouthful of truffle tagliolini.

"Don't you like it?"

"It's delicious. And you were right; it's perfect with the ale. But I really don't like the idea of moving up here. All the politicians, the rich people, the holovid stars...it'd be horrible."

Palpatine took a bite of summer melon, a sip of cream sherry, and then held his glass to the light for a moment, considering. "Anakin," he said at last, fingering its delicate stem. "You are becoming quite the snob. Were you aware of it?"

.

·:· ·:· ·:· ·:·

·

Chuckling at the memory, Anakin stepped out of the turbolift, pulling a battered grate to one side with a creak. In moments, he'd arrived at his flat, punched in the portal code, and entered his home. Opening the pack, he took out his dinner and set it aside. Next, he drew out the toolkit he'd hidden beneath it and examined its contents carefully. Satisfied, he returned the toolkit to his pack, placed it by the portal, then walked over to a synthleather loungeseat and sank into it. It had been a long day.

_"Let's have a round of Sabaac, for old time's sake."_

_"How, precisely, did you come to possess this…honorific, Commander Skywalker?"_

Anakin gritted his teeth. He never wanted to think about it, but today, he'd had nothing but reminders all day long.

_"I'm not like you, Ani-man. I don't have super powers."_

He shook his head decisively. _I'm not going to think about it. It's done. It was three years ago._

Reaching into a nearby alcove, he groped sightlessly for a few moments before emerging with a worn and chipped datapad: his farewell present from Qui-Gon Jinn. Along with the datapad, the Jedi Knight had provided several holocrons, including a few containing basic information about the Jedi and the ways of the Force. Even as a boy, Anakin had realized that while Qui-Gon Jinn didn't always play by the rules, he had ignored them outright in this case. Anakin hadn't been able to become a Jedi, so Qui-Gon had left him Jedi holocrons. After twelve years, the Jedi's defiant act still made Anakin smile, though a lump filled his throat as well. After all this time, he still found himself wondering where Qui-Gon was and what he was doing. And for the very first time, this evening he also found himself wondering whether he should have left with the Jedi Knight, after all. Had he made the right choice?

Swallowing hard, Anakin thumbed on the datapad.

"Please state inquiry."

_Two brown eyes, narrowed in irritation._

He smiled in spite of himself. "Padawan Naberrie."

""Pad-a-wan-Na-ber-rie' file not found," the recorder intoned with annoying cheerfulness. "Please state first letter of inquiry."

"'P.'"

"'P,'" the recorder recited obediently, then began rattling off at a rapid clip. "Podracing. A high-risk sport native to Tatooine, deadly to humans, with the notable exception of—"

"'Padawan,'" Anakin cut in impatiently.

In the ensuing pause, Anakin could almost hear a weary mechanical sigh. This particular entry had been called forth many, many times. "P," it continued at last. "Padawan. Second rank in the Jedi Order…"

For several minutes, Anakin tried to focus on the familiar entry's lulling words, but it was really no use. With a sigh, he returned the datapad to its niche in the alcove, rose from the loungeseat, and began walking towards the expansive balcony opposite the apartment's entryway. Once there, he leaned heavily against the bronzium rail and ran both hands through his hair, easing his lungs full of the Coruscanti night.

And then, like hovercabs on a well-worn airway, his thoughts slid back to the day he'd lost everything.

* * *

**·:·:·**


	7. Out of Mos Espa

**·:·:· **·:·

* * *

The air was crisp, the skies were clear, and the suns had just begun to rise, their rays streaking faint pink across the vast, pale-blue emptiness. It was as far as Tatooine went in the way of a perfect morning. All too soon, the raucous cries of shopkeepers, off-world pilots, and members of less savory occupations would fill the planet's few cities and spaceports, but it was too early for that yet. Right now, it was the sort of morning that could almost lull a visitor into declaring Tatooine a quaint, peaceful sort of place. Naturally, such a visitor would be dispelled of that notion by double noon, but the illusion would have been a pleasant one while it lasted.

It helped that the travelers were nearly there. They had begun heading west over an hour ago—the idea had been to arrive before it got too hot—and by the time the Jundland Wastes were behind them, Mos Espa seemed a distant memory. Now they could see a vast stretch of sandstone bluffs looming ahead, beyond which lay their destination. One of them could see the bluffs, rather: the pilot, a young man who looked to be about twenty. The other traveler sat quietly in the rear of the battered landspeeder, rough hands folded neatly in her lap. The gauzy red fabric wound several times about her eyes concealed a good deal, but left enough to reveal that the once-beautiful face beneath it remained appealing, if careworn. Hidden away were a pair of soft brown eyes which still held much of the loveliness stolen through the ravages of time. The fabric itself was beginning to fray, but the woman clung doggedly to it. It had been a present from her son, purchased with the first money he'd ever earned and been permitted to keep. Nothing would persuade her to discard it.

All in all, the entire proceedings might easily have been a kidnapping—such things often happened on Tatooine—but the woman's carriage gave no hint of fear, and her lips wore an indulgent smile.

"How much further, Anakin?" she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the roar of the landspeeder's engine.

At this, the pilot craned his neck around anxiously. "No peeking, Mom," he called back. "You promised."

The woman's smile deepened. "I'm not peeking."

"Just a few klicks more, and we're there."

"All right."

She'd finally started to feel the familiar heat of the suns on the back of her neck when the air abruptly cooled. Had they passed into the shadows? The light hadn't altered. Shmi Skywalker frowned in concentration as she felt something she had often heard described but had never personally experienced: a gentle breeze.

She tilted her head to one side uncertainly. "Anakin? May I look now?"

"Not yet."

A few moments more, and the 'speeder idled to a stop. Shmi felt it lurch to the right as the young man got out. She expected to hear him crunching sand underfoot, but instead she heard a gentle _shush_ing sound, almost as if he were stepping through a slew of fabric pieces like the one she had about her eyes.

She was on the point of speaking again when two hands, rougher than her own, grasped her wrists, and she nearly jerked away in shock. For the past few years, she'd vaguely noticed Anakin's shoulders broadening, his voice deepening, his erratic steps becoming a cool swagger. But this morning, the steady, calloused grip of his hands confirmed her suspicions. Now there could be no more pretending.

_He is all grown up,_ she thought sadly. _Soon, he will leave me._

The firm hands gave a tug. "Come on, Mom."

Dismissing her thoughts, Shmi stepped carefully from the speeder and began taking slow steps forward, allowing Anakin to guide her. One thing was certain: the curious substance beneath her foot coverings was not sand. It didn't give enough to be sand, and it seemed solidly rooted in one place. But what the soft strips caressing her steps actually were remained a mystery, as did the source of the more pronounced _shush_ing sound that could now be heard, faintly at first, but growing louder as the two continued their approach. To complete the riddle, a delicious smell hung in the air, at once familiar and impossible to place.

Suddenly, she laughed. "Where _are_ we, Anakin?"

The young man laughed, too. "See for yourself." Gently, he drew the gauze from her eyes, and Shmi gasped.

Before them stood an intricate gate of burnished copper with dark-green ivy twining through it. The gate headed up a rust-colored fence surrounding a enchanting courtyard and hung open, allowing an unobstructed view of the cozy-looking, cream-colored dwelling about twenty meters ahead. The building's portal and trim had been painted a cheeky shade of green that perfectly matched the foliage of—yes, that was an actual _tree_ in the courtyard, off to the right, breezy and swaying. Its tiny leaves shimmered in the morning light, scattering brilliant flecks through the air which moved to the same rhythm as the blades of soft grass carpeting the ground fifty meters in every direction. At the fiftieth meter, a circular, pale-gold energy shield rose to a dome high above, completely enclosing the place. Beyond the shield lay the hostile environment of forbidding rock cliffs and sun-bleached dunes, but within it, one could easily imagine the desert no longer existed.

"Oh, Anakin," Shmi said faintly. "It's lovely." Slowly, she brought her hands to her mouth.

The young man reached for her left hand, planted a kiss on it, and tucked her arm into his. "I'd hoped you'd like it."

As they began walking forward again, Shmi drank in the sights around her, marveling at the flowers, the moss, the delicate marble statues adorning the little courtyard. "For a holiday?" she suggested.

Smiling, Anakin gripped her arm a bit more tightly. "No. For you."

Shmi's free hand went to the base of her throat. "For me? I don't…" But then her voice faded away. In the space of a few moments, comprehension, shock, and sadness flickered over her face, but Anakin was too busy pointing things out to notice.

"There's a ray shield generator behind the building," he was saying, "for keeping the temperature stable. And over here, you've got a humidifier hidden in one of the statues. There's even a dirt plot where you can garden; actually _garden, _Mom. But that's not the best part." Eagerly, he propelled her forward. "Wait until you see what's in the back. It's the most incredible—"

A sudden clatter of metallic limbs interrupted him, and the green portal was flung open. All at once, a harried protocol droid stood before the two humans, alloyed arms akimbo. His casing had been buffed to a bright sheen, and now, with his indignant stance, C-3PO looked very grand indeed. "Well, I—!" he sputtered. "Master Ani, you _did_ say you wouldn't arrive before 1000. And here it is, only half past 0800. I have done my best, but the noon meal isn't prepared yet, and I haven't finished polishing the brasses or starching the linens. There aren't even any fresh blossoms for the—"

"It's all right, Threepio," Anakin said with a laugh. "I'm sure Mom won't mind a rumpled dining cloth just this once. You've done a great job. Unhitch my bike from the 'speeder and bring us something to drink, please. Come on," he said to Shmi, fairly dragging her up three tiled steps and into the dwelling.

Once inside, Shmi's eyes widened at the lavish decor. The dwelling was comparatively small, but each room had been furnished with exquisite taste. Grandest of all was the living room in which she now found herself. From the glittering chandelier above her head to the glowing slabs of imported wood beneath her feet, everything about this place whispered of the sort of languid grace that can usually only accompany a great deal of money. The thick rugs adorning the flooring would have been ludicrous in Mos Espa, but they made perfect sense here, as the air was actually a bit cool. Outside, she could just make out a small, stone fountain that bubbled merrily, as if having a laugh at its extravagant misuse of the precious liquid most on Tatooine horded. Looking at the opulent surroundings, Shmi shivered, and not entirely from the breeze flowing through the curtained windows.

Anakin had been pointing at the prodigal fountain, but at last, she had his full attention. "Mom?" he asked, laying a hand on her trembling forearm. "Are you all right?"

She didn't answer.

"Mom?" he insisted, giving her a little shake. "What's wrong? If there's anything you don't like about the place, anything at all..."

Silently drawing her arm away, Shmi took a few steps into the room and turned to face him. "Anakin," she said quietly. "How have you paid for all of this?"

The young man started, and then a stubborn look stole over his features. "I've never lied to you before, Mom, and I'm not going to start now. You know I'd never make enough from scrapping for something this nice."

Slowly, she shook her head. "Oh, Anakin. How could you?"

Clenching his jaw, Anakin looked away for a moment, then met her gaze squarely. "After I won the Boonta Eve, I promised you I'd never race again," he said, folding his arms. "And I haven't. But I'm not going to waste years of my life trying to make a living when I can make just as much in one night."

Shmi held up her hands. "Please, Anakin. I don't want to hear any more."

It stung as much as if she'd slapped him outright. Though his mother's brown eyes held only sadness, not a hint of reproach, Anakin felt a sudden urge to defend himself. "I don't even want to _be_ here," he said bitterly. "You know I've never wanted to be here."

Now pity crept into Shmi's gaze. "I knew that you could never be happy here," she said quietly. "But I had hoped one day you'd find peace."

Anakin laughed. "Peace?" He began pacing the length of the room, the rugs nearly muffling his steps to silence. "How can I ever find peace in a place where people like Jabba have everything and people like us barely get by?" Pausing near a gilded mirror, he rounded on her angrily. "We could have left _years_ ago, Mom. Watto freed you two years after he freed me, on the condition that we wouldn't leave for another three years. That was seven years ago. _Why are we still here?_"

Shmi looked toward the billowing curtains at her right. "You know I can't leave, Anakin."

Sighing, the young man ran a hand over his face. "Right. Cliegg."

She looked at him earnestly. "He's good to me, Anakin. He's a good man."

"I guess he's a good man," Anakin conceded. "But he hates me. He doesn't think I'm good enough for you."

A smile quirked the corners of Shmi's mouth. "He has the very same complaint about you, Ani. He even uses the same words." Her smile faded. "I do hope you'll become friends in time, or at least come to tolerate one another."

The young man folded his arms again. "But I want us to _leave_, Mom!" _And Cliegg never will,_ he added silently.

Shmi looked at her rough foot coverings, sunken in the plush carpet. Then, slowly, she sat on one of the upholstered cushions scattered throughout the room. "I'm sorry, love. But my place is here."

Gritting his teeth, Anakin started to pace again and nearly crashed into C-3PO, who, having detached Anakin's speeder bike and ensured it was in good order, had immediately proceeded to the kitchen to prepare the requested beverages.

"I _beg_ your pardon, Master Ani," he said nervously. "I…trust this will suffice?"

Anakin nodded over to a marble end table. "Thank you, Threepio. That's all for now."

The protocol droid set a tray on the small, round surface with a rattle, then clanked from the room, muttering worriedly to himself.

As soon as C-3PO had turned the corner, Anakin resumed the argument. "Fine," he said, flinging up his hands. "Stay here. But I want you out of Mos Espa. From now on, this is your new home."

Shmi looked at him firmly. "Anakin, you know I don't approve of these chance games. How could I live in this place, knowing it came from Sabacc?"

"But Mom, I did it for _you!_ Taverns doesn't even miss it. He's got three others just like it."

Again, Shmi was silent.

"These people don't even realize what they have," Anakin went on, snatching a gold and fizzy drink from the tray C-3PO had brought in the room. "I'm sick of seeing you in that old hut. You deserve better." Gently, he handed the drink to his mother.

She set it aside. "I don't want it, Anakin."

He looked worried again. "Are you hungry? Threepio can—"

"No, Ani."

Frustrated, Anakin threw himself into a seat opposite Shmi's, but rose from it almost immediately. It was too soft. Everything about this place was too soft. He would never have chosen such a home for himself, but it wasn't for him; it was for his mother. And she hated it.

He looked at her. "Why?"

As always, Shmi understood what he'd left unspoken. "It _is_ lovely, Anakin. But it isn't mine. I didn't work for it or earn it, and neither did you."

"I won it. Like I won my freedom."

"That was different, love," she replied softly. "Watto had no right to rob you of your freedom in the first place. You were just taking what had always been yours. But this?" She gestured at the lavish surroundings. "Anakin…it's wrong."

"_Why_ is it wrong, Mom? Taverns probably stole it from someone else."

"So you would lower yourself to his level? To the level of a thief?"

There was no satisfactory response to this question, so Anakin sidestepped it entirely. "I just want you to have the best. I want you to be comfortable. Happy."

"I could never be happy here," Shmi said quietly. "I would have been happy to see you spend your whole life a slave, if it meant you kept the heart you had as a little boy."

At this, the young man gave a rueful grin. "I was no saint, Mom. I stole; I got in fights."

"But you used to get so angry when people were treated unfairly. You hated tricksters and bullies."

Anakin shrugged. "I still do."

"Do you?" As the young man's gaze faltered, she went on. "I hate that game, Anakin. I hate how it's changing you, what it's making you become."

After a lengthy pause, Anakin looked away. "I didn't make the rules, Mom. I'm just doing the best I can with what I have."

Shmi was silent; this time, for a long while. When the young man finally found the courage to meet her gaze, he saw that though the brown eyes fixed on his face were dry, they were shimmering with a profound sorrow that went beyond tears.

He was horrified. "Mom, don't." He could feel his cheeks burning. "I'm sorry. I really thought you'd like it."

There was another long pause. When Shmi at last spoke again, she was very grave. "Anakin," she said, "you must not trample your gifts so."

Inwardly, Anakin cringed. Outwardly, he ran a hand through his hair. "Look, Mom...I'd better go. I should have been at the shop an hour ago. Watto's always going on about firing me. He'll never do it, but I get tired of hearing,"—here he adopted the Toydarian's thick accent and sweeping gestures—"'_Every_ day, I get ten boys _begging_ to work for me! For _free!_'"

Shmi smiled at the flawless impersonation in spite of herself. "I can't understand why you still work for that terrible person."

Anakin shrugged again. "I like droids. And Watto pays me to play with them all day."

"Not enough." She paused thoughtfully. "You could ask Watto for another pay increase, Anakin. That would be money you'd earned."

He made a face. "I'd rather win it, Mom. I _like_ Sabaac. It's a lot of fun when you can't lose. I mean, I do lose sometimes. But never a lot, and always on purpose."

"How can it be sport to win from poor creatures too stupid to know any better?"

Anakin rolled his eyes. "Believe me, Mom, if you had any idea what kind of low-life scum loses to me, you wouldn't give them any of your pity."

Again came the fond, sad look that nearly broke his heart. Sometimes he wished she'd just beat him senseless and get it over with.

He checked his wrist chrono. "Got to go."

"Anakin—"

"Threepio can make you anything you want. We'll talk later, okay?" He was already moving toward the entrance.

Shmi sighed. "All right, my love. Be safe."

Pausing at the ornate door to shrug into a tasteful nerf-leather blazer—another pricey 'acquisition'—the young man grinned. "Mom. I'm practically invincible."

A wink, a wave, and he was gone.

* * *

**·:·:· **·:·


	8. A Friend In Need

**·:·:· **·:· ·:·

* * *

True to form, Watto greeted his tardy employee with a flurry of indignant rebukes. Anakin had barely gotten through the shop's entrance before the junk dealer rushed up to him, leathery wings thrashing, his impressive nose quivering with rage.

"_Listen_, Skywalker, I pay you to _work! Eh?_ You think I keep you here for your _looks?_"

"Well," Anakin said thoughtfully, "they _are_ pretty remarkable."

Watto's face darkened. "You _get_ in the back of the shop, boy! _Now!_ I don't want to hear another word! I want to hear _metal_, eh? Metal brings _money!_"

Anakin folded his arms about his chest. "Watto," he said patiently, "I'm not a little kid, and I'm not your slave. So I'll apologize _once_ for being late, but I won't sit through this nonsense. We both know I make you a lot more than you give me."

Watto's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "What, you talk of _more_ money? I give you _triple_ per hour what other scrappers make, _pay_ for your housing, _buy_ your food, _free_ your mother, ...!"

And so on and so forth, and more in the same fashion. It was only when Anakin offered to take the entire day off without pay that Watto finally lapsed into a sullen silence. He knew he could make more with Anakin in a few hours than without him in a whole week. Anakin knew the locals, and they liked him. More importantly, the young man had the unsettling knack of knowing precisely what was wrong with their mechanical devices and being able to quickly put them right again. He was practically a living spice mine, so valuable that the avaricious Toydarian had been loath to give him his freedom in the first place, and certainly too valuable to risk losing now over so minor a matter as punctuality. Watto was also perfectly aware that the young man wasn't in it for the money; a single hand of Sabaac was often more lucrative than a month's wages. If Anakin stayed, it was because it suited him to stay, and Watto knew it was in his interests to keep it that way.

"Well," he finally grumbled, "you're here _now_, so might as well stay, eh? I go look for customers."

Shaking his head as Watto flapped by in a huff, Anakin peeled off his blazer, hung it on a hook, and made for the counter that had been his workstation for over a decade. After donning a coarse gray poncho and a pair of heavy brown goggles with green lenses, he examined the large pile of broken equipment awaiting him like a dubious present. Five rusting vaporators, a few shorted power converters, several ailing pit droids, and a clogged sandstat. Rubbing his hands together, he got started, and within moments was completely engrossed in his work.

The sandstat had been fairly well-put-together, but the maintenance efforts on it had been extremely subpar, if indeed its owner had bothered with such nuisances at all. Cleaning it was therefore the first order of business. Having cracked the enormous device open, Anakin was just lowering it into a steaming oil bath when he heard shrieks and the sizzle of electricity, and looked up in time to see a small group of Jawas running past the shop, gloved hands above their heads, yelping with all their might. He shrugged—panicking Jawas were a common sight in Mos Espa—finished submerging the sandstat, and was soon absorbed in inspecting the first of the power converters. Every now and then, he gave a sigh of satisfaction. Such was his enjoyment of his work that if he had his way, tinkering would be all he ever did in the junk shop.

Unfortunately, the acerbic Watto had a way of driving off the very business he craved through insults and demeaning speech, and in order to prevent him losing what few customers he had, Anakin was often obliged to serve as an intermediary, breaking up arguments and smoothing ruffled feathers. Just such a circumstance appeared to be in progress now. Deep in the cavity of the power converter, Anakin was having at its upper interior with a set of needle-nose pliers when he heard the Toydarian's shouts ringing out.

"_No!_" Watto was yelling. "_No_ droids!"

"Bee-DOPP-wip-_DWEEET!_" came the indignant reply.

Leaning out of the converter, Anakin tilted up his goggles to investigate, wiping the sweat from his eyes. A silver astromech with blue markings had rolled through the bit of sand heaped near the junk shop entrance, planted itself right in front of Watto, and was now holding its own against the Toydarian with astonishing pluck, chirping defiantly. Smiling, Anakin returned his attention to the power converter.

With his protruding belly, Watto gave the stubborn droid a savage shove. "I say, _no_ _droids!_ Get out of here!"

Leaning back on its third leg, the astromech swiveled its domed head from side to side, its large photoreceptor sweeping from one end of the shop to the other. Then it gave a sharp, sardonic, "_BWAP."_

Watto whirled around. "Hey, _Ani!_ What's he saying?"

"I think he says he sees a lot of droids in here, Watto," Anakin replied, his voice muffled from within the converter casing.

Watto turned back to the astromech with a terrible grin. "Yeah, but _those _droids don't work no more."

The little droid's domed top swiveled round again, and he gave a mournful whine.

The junk dealer laughed menacingly. "That's right, droid. _Those_ droids...are _parts_. Droid _parts_, we got _lots_ of room for." Flying to a nearby toolkit, he grabbed a large wrench and waved it threateningly. "And we'll make a parts out of _you_ if you don't get _out _of here! _Now!_"

Instantly, the large photoreceptor swung darkly in Watto's direction. With an angry _D__WEEP!_, the astromech flipped an electric pike from its casing and began advancing on the Toydarian, the end of the instrument crackling ominously.

And now Watto was shrieking. "_Hey!_ Hey, _stop, _droid! _AIIIEE!_" Dimly, Anakin heard the Toydarian's wings beating rapidly as he flew through the shop, trying to get out of range of the ferocious little pike. "Hey, _Ani!_ _ANI!_"

With a sigh, Anakin pulled himself completely out of the power converter and laid down his tools. Tugging the goggles up to his forehead, he headed over to the entrance and wiped his hands on his poncho. "Whoa, little buddy," he coaxed, crouching down to the astromech's level. "It's all right. No one's going to hurt you."

The large photoreceptor regarded him skeptically, and the droid gave an uncertain chirrup.

"It's all right," Anakin repeated soothingly. "What can we do for you? Do you need help?"

The domed head swiveled from Anakin to Watto and back to Anakin. And then, slowly, the astromech snapped the electric pike back in its casing. Turning its back on the Toydarian with an indignant _hmph!_, it gave a long and intricate series of rapid beeps and whistles, then waited patiently.

The young man frowned. "Something about 'a ship'...and 'trouble'..." Rolling his eyes, he got to his feet. "He's got a message from someone on a downed ship, Watto. That's why he's here."

Watto's wings gave an expectant flap. "Well, why didn't they come themselves, eh?" he muttered. But the greed had already begun to glow in his eyes.

Anakin was back in the cavity of the power converter. "I don't know. Better ask them."

"All right, droid," the Toydarian said imperiously. "Play your message."

With a _bwip!_, the R2 unit turned on its holoprojector, and Anakin began going at the converter wiring with renewed intensity. He'd just located the damaged receptor when he heard shouting again and heaved a heavy sigh, this time of irritation. At this rate, he'd never get the device fixed.

.

·:·

·

The robed figure stood before the holoprojector with mounting impatience. The situation was critical and time was of the essence, yet he was being forced to fritter away much of what little remained haggling with a truculent merchant. It was insupportable.

"I tell you, credits _won't work!_" the bug-eyed creature was roaring. "Coruscant people, they think the whole _galaxy _works for them! I meet one other from Coruscant, maybe...ten years back? Hey, _Ani!_" he yelled over his shoulder. "You remember that _Jedi?_"

"Of course," came the smooth tenor of the room's other occupant, and in moments, a tall young man with smudges on his face and goggles in his hair stepped into view, wiping his hands on, first his garment, and then a grimy oil cloth.

The robed man frowned. There was something important about this young man, something tremendously important, but the disturbance of the pot-bellied creature's strident voice was preventing him from getting a clear handle on what it might be.

"Of course," the creature was repeating balefully. "You see, _Ani_ here was my slave, and after that _Jedi_ finish, he free him!" He glared at the young man in disgust. "Now I _pay_ him to work for me. Any time he want, he _leave!_"

"I'm still here, Watto," came the patient reply.

"For _now._" The creature called Watto looked at his employee crossly. "What I _bring_ you here for, anyway?"

"You asked if I remembered—"

"Ah, yeah. Ani, when that _Jedi_ come in, what I say?"

The young man grinned. "'_Mind tricks_ don't work, only _money!_'" he shouted, copying Watto's voice so expertly that a blind man would have sworn him a clone.

The robed man widened his eyes.

Watto was shaking his head. "No, _before_ that, Ani! When he take out his _credits!_"

The young man called Ani considered for a moment, then nodded. "_Credits_ don't work, only _money!_" he amended with equal enthusiasm.

Satisfied, Watto turned back to the hologram. "And _then_ he try mind tricks, but I'm a Toydarian, and they _don't work!_"

.

·:· ·:·

·

As Watto raged on, Anakin was outwardly all patience and calm. Inwardly, though, he sighed for what felt like the tenth time. The junk dealer spent so much time complaining about money and how little business came to his small shop, but whenever business did show up, he seemed determined to chase it away. Now, for instance, the prospective customer was nodding politely at the Toydarian's tirade, but Anakin could sense his growing exasperation.

Taking off his goggles, he pushed his tousled hair from his eyes and smiled winningly. "What can we do for you, sir?"

In response, the robed figure gave him a look that cut him through. It was as if, in a matter of seconds, he immediately saw Anakin for everything he was—weighed the entire sum of his being, bad and good—and approved of him.

"As I explained to your employer," he said calmly, "my starship has sustained significant damage. I must have it repaired immediately."

Anakin considered. "You wouldn't happen to be flying in a J-type 327 Nubian, would you?"

The robed figure glanced at him curiously. "As a matter of fact, I am."

A chuckle. "Malfunctioning hyperspace drive, by any chance?"

Now the figure gazed at the young man with profound interest. "Indeed. How did you know?"

Grinning, Anakin shrugged. "Lucky guess."

There came a significant pause. "And do you often have such...'guesses'?"

The young man didn't respond. Instead, he turned to his companion with a furrowed brow. "Hey, Watto," he said confidingly, "maybe we could—"

The Toydarian gave his head an adamant shake. "_No_, Ani! I handle the _business_, you handle the _droids!_"

Anakin shrugged again. "Fine." Walking back to his counter, he switched tasks and began working on the now-gleaming sandstat, aiming to keep both parties in view as the arguing continued. It wasn't long before he heard Watto's favorite ultimatum.

"...and you _won't_ find a Nubian hyperspace drive anywhere _else_ around here, I promise you _that!_"

The robed man sighed, then was silent for a long while. "Oh, dear," he said at last. "What is to be done?"

Watto beamed triumphantly. "You don't have money, you _don't fly!_"

Glancing up, Anakin could see that the hologrammed figure looked distinctly discomfited. "And yet, it is imperative that I return to Coruscant. I must return with all due speed." Suddenly, he looked over at Anakin, as if appealing for his intercession.

For a moment, the young man kept chipping hot sand from the dripping sandstat, seemingly unmoved. But then he gave the robed man a sly wink.

"Watto," he said nonchalantly, "Did we ever get those brackets from Zmee?"

Watto's face darkened into purple, and again, his considerable nose quivered. "I _tell_ him! I say, '_Look,_ I'm running a business, _eh? _So you got to bring the parts! I lose too much _money_ already!'"

"I think I saw him having a drink over at Akim's," Anakin said casually.

Trembling with rage, the livid Watto hurried out of his shop in pursuit of the pre-paid order, bellowing loud threats that grew fainter the further he flew.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Anakin walked to the holoprojector and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry about that. Watto's not the greatest at dealing with customers. Or people in general, for that matter."

The robed figure nodded. "Thank you, my friend." Then, in one fluid motion, he removed his hooded garment to reveal ornate robes of state.

Anakin gaped. "Chancellor Palpatine. I had no idea."

The chancellor held up a hand for silence. "I had thought discretion wise in these unknown parts. But now I wish to earn your trust by exhibiting my own. I do hope you can help us."

Anakin gave a smooth bow. "Certainly, Your Excellency," he said in cultured tones. "I would be honored to assist you."

The chancellor tilted his head a fraction to the right, narrowing his eyes. "Have you lived here long, young man?"

Anakin grimaced. "All my life. But I've seen a few Coruscanti holovids, so I'll know how to act in case I ever get off this rock. If I make it to the Core, I don't want to sound like someone from the dunes." He waved a hand. "But that's not important, Chancellor. How can I help you? Tell me what's happened, and I'll do my best to be of service to you."

Smiling approvingly, Palpatine began his story.

It had begun with the twentieth anniversary of the Naboo tragedy. Backed by the Neimodians, the Gungans had decided to erect a monument in Theed "in Commemoration of the Lost Many." Though this was doubtlessly merely a political gesture meant to stem the mounting unpopularity of the Trade Federation, Republic citizens had responded eagerly, and the event had garnered a great deal of publicity. The chancellor himself, it appeared, had privately insisted on being present for the monument's debut, but had also intended to provide aid for the few human Naboo managing to eke out an existence on their shattered homeworld. Such aid was forbidden, so the emergency supplies were concealed in the Nubian starship's two escape pods to ensure they wouldn't be confiscated. Furthermore, the party had gone unescorted to avoid suspicion. But the Trade Federation managed to spot the escape pods being jettisoned, suspected foul play, and began firing on the ship. As had been the case nearly a decade ago to the day, only the quick actions of several brave astromech droids had saved the starship, but the hyperspace drive had sustained severe damage in the course of the battle. It would take years to get back to Coruscant on their sublight engines alone, and they simply didn't have the capacities for such an undertaking.

The young man smiled at the end of the story, recalling a similar one from ten years prior. Back then, Qui-Gon Jinn had been escorting former Chancellor Valorum to the battered planet on a mission of comfort and aid, and the Trade Federation, predictably, had taken violent exception to the ship's presence in the sector. Anakin shook his head. Even with their impressive armored hull and many modifications, the beautiful Nubian starships remained quite delicate. It was a wonder that a pragmatic man like Palpatine had consented to fly in one in the first place, given their reputation of fragility.

"So you need a new hyperspace drive," he concluded. "That's not a problem. Watto always keeps a couple of T-14 generators handy, just in case. But they cost eighty thousand wupiupi each, not including Hutt tax."

The chancellor frowned. "I have two hundred thousand Republic credits at my immediate disposal, but I haven't a coin of your" —he checked a datapad, his frown deepening— "...your Huttese money. We can't carry it on diplomatic missions for fear of spice lords, space pirates, and other brigands."

Anakin nodded his understanding, then thought for a moment. He had about two hundred wupiupi in his pocket. It'd take a bit of doing, but it was definitely possible. Nodding again, he pulled off the poncho, his decision made. "Don't worry," he said, reaching for his jacket. "I'll get you some real money."

* * *

**·:·:·**·:· ·:·


	9. Consequences

**·:·:· **·:· ·:· ·:·

* * *

Years later, battle-hardened gamers would call it a match to separate men from crechlings. The ante was up to eight thousand, speculation was running high, and the Devaronian had a skifter up his sleeve. Seven players had entered the hand; now the smoky cantina air buzzed with side bets on which of the three remaining would cart off the winnings.

"I still say the kid'll lose. Vinnie's got his swooper on. He _never_ loses when he wears that thing. It's poison."

Several glances darted at the player in question, Vinmel Grott, who was indeed wearing his swoop jacket, a bulky contrivance from the hide of some ferocious creature that had doubtlessly fought to the last. Its dark green leather contrasted strikingly with the scarlet hues of Grott's reptilian skin and brought out the sheen of his pale yellow horns.

There came another low whisper. "Yeah, but check out the hair on Skywalker. Messy. It always starts out neat, but—"

A new voice interrupted. "That's 'cause he pretties himself up in the 'fresher before he sets foot on the floor." A snort. "Even runs a file under his nails to get the grime out."

"It shows respect for the game, Fallon. Anyway, what counts is that every time _I've_ seen him win big, the hair gets messy right about now. Kid's on his mark today. For once, he actually cares about the money. He'll win."

There now came a query in thick, lilting tones. "But what of the baron?"

A clicking noise of finality. "Crispy's done for. Bets big, but doesn't bring enough action to the draw. Too conservative."

The first speaker murmured his agreement. "He'll be out this ante; count on it."

As if to confirm the statement, a rivulet of sweat from beneath an earlobe had found the collar of His Gallant Eminence, Lord Herlig of Crispin, and was seeping into the damask silk. Having loosened his cravat some time ago, the baron currently looked seconds from tugging it off entirely; apparently, only deeply-engrained propriety held him back. It didn't take much to realize these signs of distress were, not the euphoric jitters brought on by a good hand, but the tremors of genuine panic. Lord Herlig had upped his ante early on, had gone "all in" far too quickly, and had played for far too long. From the numb look he was currently giving his cards, whatever hand the baron held wasn't good news.

_For him_, the third player thought before dismissing the baron entirely. It had been late morning when the young man had arrived at the cantina, and the hours had passed quickly. Now the light of Tatooine's second sun glared fiercely on his brow from a high window, casting his gaze into shadow. Furthermore, the long sweep of his lashes made his eyes appear closed when he checked his cards. The entire effect was that of inscrutability, composure, and a hint of arrogance; the effect of a man who knew he would win, but was clever enough to not state it openly. Conflicting with this compelling effect were the long fingers restlessly tapping the red gaming table and raking frequently through dark blond hair. For the second time in as many minutes, Anakin Skywalker checked his chrono. _1435_.

Grott smiled innocently at the gesture of impatience. "You are having boredoms with us, Skywalker?"

Shrugging, the young man lit a cig. "Just waiting for the Baron to make his move. You done shifting over there, Lord Herlig?"

Ashen, Lord Herlig swallowed convulsively. "I am finished." A significant pause highlighted the double meaning of his words. "I'm afraid it's…quite bad news." A final gulp of his claret, and the baron revealed his cards with trembling hands. A Master of Coins and a Moderation; a positive fourteen, and a negative one. With a winning hand of Sabaac at either positive or negative twenty-three and his two cards summing to an even naught, Lord Herlig was as far from victory as one could possibly get.

The Devaronian's grin widened, but it no longer pretended to be innocent. "You are having very _bad luck_ today, Herlig of Crispin."

The baron smiled tightly. "Quite. Indeed, in the face of such dismal odds, gentlemen, I feel the proper thing to do is bow out gracefully." With an elegant flourish, his tossed his unfortunate sabacc hand to the center of the table, where four other hands had gone prior to it.

The hushed speculations in the background gained volume with this latest development.

"See? The barry's out. Now it's just Vin and the kid. My truguts are on Skywalker today."

Brief laughter. "Kid's got _nothin'_."

A noise of incredulity. "He's got a Joker and the Three of Staves, Akim. You call that 'nothing'?"

"It's nothin' without a Two, and they're gone."

"Not all of them," the first speaker said decisively. "Mad Maddie's a minus two, and she hasn't turned up yet. Kid manages to pull her, that's an Array; highest hand possible."

As the whispering continued, Grott dropped all restraint and began leering at the baron outright. But Anakin frowned. The poor man had just lost twelve thousand wupiupi in one go. There was no need to rub his face in it.

Instead, the young man clicked his tongue sympathetically. "Don't worry, Lord Herlig. You'll win it all back next week."

It was a gross distortion of truth; it was an outright lie. Lord Herlig of Crispin was a terrible gambler, and the rankest amateur in Mos Espa knew it. The real thing for the baron to do would be to give up the sport entirely, at least as long as his secretive business kept him on Tatooine—but that he never would.

To fill the awkward silence that had fallen, Anakin took another pull from his cig. "Well, give my best to Lady Aesha," he said cheerfully, returning his gaze to his own hand.

The previously pale Lord Herlig now flushed crimson at the mention of his wife, which brought out a sprinkling of freckles spanning his nose. He dabbed delicately at his temples with a pocket kerchief, then ran a few fingers through his thinning hair. "Yes. Well." His fleshy cheeks let out a puff of air. "Carry on, then, gentlemen."

"Mm-hmm," said Anakin as the baron walked off, outwardly intent on his cards. Inwardly, he had long since shifted his full focus to the player across from him, his last remaining opponent. Naturally, the young man had known about the skifter from the start. The Devaronian had held off from playing it so far, but would soon make his move.

Seeming to sense something as well, the spectators began whispering more urgently.

"See that smirk? I bet Vin's got a skifter stashed somewhere. He's done it before."

A dubious glance at Grott. "But who would pull a skifter on Skywalker? Kid would spot it ten klicks away. Vinnie's crazy, but he's not stupid."

An adamant clink of coins. "Twenty wups says the Dev's got a skifter _and_ he'll play it."

"No deal; if he played it, we'd never know. But forty says the kid pulls a pure sabacc and takes both pots."

"You're on. _No_ one's that lucky."

**.**

·:·

_**·**_

As the betting lines were drawn and individuals chose which side to fall in on, Anakin glanced at the Devaronian, then flicked a bit of ash from his cig.

Grott leaned forward threateningly. "We are having enough of the 'stalling' of the play, Skywalker. It is now your move."

Anakin took another slow drag before speaking. "Since it's down to the two of us, house rules say it's final draw, then we deal each other from our stack."

There now came a murderous glare. "Vinnie is _knowing _the rules of the sabacc house."

"Then you should also know it's your play, Vin. You deal first."

At this, Anakin sensed a sudden spike of aggression and duplicity and steeled himself. It wouldn't be long, now.

"Of course," the Devaronian said softly.

The background whispers became frantic.

"Vinnie's a maniac. I just don't trust him."

"Ani-man's got his number, though. See how still he is?"

"Yeah, kid's just waiting for the Dev to make his move. I tell you, it's a fool that'd try to cheat Anakin Skywalker."

"He'll regret it."

As the betting raged wildly on, each male reached for the card the dealer droid spat at him and added it to his hand. Suddenly, there it came, almost too quickly to catch. A flutter of movement at the left cuff of Grott's jacket, and for the briefest of instances, the Devaronian held in his blood-red hands, not three sabacc cards, but four. Just as quickly, though, one of the cards—Anakin could only conclude it was the one Grott found least useful—slipped back up the cuff. The entire trick had taken less than a second, and through it all, the Devaronian had never taken his eyes from his opponent's. At last, his gaze dropped to his cards, and he began shuffling them carefully.

_Now_, thought Anakin.

The subtlest of suggestions, and Grott shuffled one time less than he'd intended, causing the skifter to be the card placed face-down before Anakin. Rapidly, the young man 'nudged' it until he sensed what he was looking for. As he reached for the card, his gaze flicked down, then up to Grott. The crimson face was expressionless, but Anakin could sense the triumph radiating from him. Their gazes remained locked as the dealer droid gave a series of countdown beeps. When the final beep sounded, the two males, still staring at one another, revealed their draw cards.

For a moment, there was thick silence in the room, with the very suns seeming to strain through the haze for a peek. And then everyone was speaking at once.

"He's _won_ it!"

"He's got her!"

"The kid's pulled Mad Maddie!"

It was true. Before the young man, gold-green in the shifting light, was the Mistress of Air and Darkness. Properly known elsewhere as the "Queen", she'd been demoted to Mistress on Tatooine. With the locals holding that she was "mad" to have ever thought herself above the other Mistresses, "Mad Maddie" was born—and Anakin had her in his grasp.

Grott, on the other hand, had the Seven of Flasks. Paired with his prior cards—the Ace of Sabers and the Two of Coins—he now had a score of 24 and had "bombed plumb out", as the regulars gleefully put it.

The chatter continued.

"_Incredible._"

"The kid's done it again!"

"That's forty wups you owe me, Merl."

"All right, all right. Hold your banthas."

Sprinkled amid the many congratulatory shouts were loud groans from the few individuals bold enough to bet against Anakin, now vowing they'd never do it again. Meanwhile, several dancing females shrieked with delight. One even fainted.

For his part, Anakin took a final pull from his cig before stubbing it out with a wink. "Good game."

During all the tumult, the Devaronian had sat silent, clearly stunned by the turn of events. But now he shoved his cards off the table with a hiss. "Jedi _poodoo!"_

Suddenly, the room was deathly quiet. As its sager occupants began creeping noiselessly for the exits, Anakin glanced over the edges of the truguts he'd been gathering. "What are you smoking, Vinnie? I'm not a Jedi."

Grott's thick nails clawed the table. "You use Jedi mind trick, make Vinnie lose game! Every time, Vinnie is losing to you!"

Smiling, the young man began tucking the bills into his breast pocket. "Easy, Vinnie baby. Keep your horns on. Nobody makes you play."

Two horn tips glowed fiery blue. "Vinnie will be making _you _pay for this game, you son of murglak. Vinnie will be making you pay."

He sighed. "_Relax_, Vin. You'll get it back. I'm just lucky today."

"You are having luck _every_ day, Skywalker. You are having too much 'luck'. But Vinnie will have last laugh." A chair scraped against the hard-packed ground, and Grott stalked out.

Anakin frowned. A few acquaintances gathered at his side.

"Hey. Ani-man. That don't look too good."

"Yeah. You want we should follow him, Skywalker?"

Anakin thought of his overstuffed pocket. Twenty-five hundred truguts. Forty thousand wupiupi. It was an extraordinary sum, one that would normally have contented him for some time—but under the current circumstances, it wasn't enough by half. He still needed a few more wins to get the hyperspace drive he'd promised the Chancellor.

And so, reaching over, he began gathering the scattered cards. "Nah. Let him go. He's bluffing."

**.**

·:· ·:·

_**·**_

But the young man was uneasy for the rest of the afternoon. It took everything in him to stay focused on "the play", this _jhabacc_ game that was so deadly serious. Finally, it was finished, and the ninety-six thousand wupiupi from his thirteenth consecutive win—an all-time record—were barely tucked safely away before, ignoring the pleas of, "Just _one _more hand, kid; _come_ on, Skywalker!", Anakin was on his speeder bike, zooming towards Watto's shop. Once there, he shoved the money and an explanatory note into the slot of a locked drawer, slipped a T-14 hyperdrive generator into a passcode-protected anti-grav container, and harnessed the container to the faithful little astromech that had waited hopefully all day long. As the R2 unit jetted triumphantly off with its cargo floating behind it, Anakin began racing for home, now filled with an inexplicable dread.

He began by heading towards the property he'd won from Taverns, but his senses tugged him so insistently in the opposite direction that it wasn't long before he gave in and let them lead him along. To his surprise, they led him to a small housing compound a few streets from Slave Quarter's Row. The street was spookily silent, and all the windows in the lane were dark except for a dimly flickering synthlamp in the entrance of his old home.

His heart thudding in his chest, Anakin leapt from the speeder, dashed towards the house, and—for the second time that day—nearly collided with C-3P0, who had rushed out to meet him.

"Master _Ani!_" the protocol droid cried, so flustered that for once, it forgot to apologize for the mishap that was never completely its fault. "It is _so_ good to see you fully functional."

"Hey, Threepio," Anakin said distractedly. "Where's my mother?"

"Oh, dear; oh, dear." The droid gave several ineffective flutters. "She's…dying, I'm afraid."

The young man glowered at him. "_Not_ funny."

"_Well_, I—no humor was intended, Master Ani. I was programmed for etiquette, not entertainment. I only thought that…perhaps you should…know…"

Anakin pushed past the droid, a chill flooding through him. "Mom?" he called as he ran towards the entrance. "_Mom?_"

Before he could get inside, a barrel-chested man with brown hair, pale eyebrows, and a graying beard accosted him. "Where the _hell_ have you been, boy?" snarled Cliegg Lars.

Anakin grinned mirthlessly. "Nice to see you too, Cliegg. Bad day on the farm, I take it." Brushing past the older man, he began scanning the residence. "Is my mother home?"

"I'm…in here, Ani," a woman's voice called faintly.

It was then that Anakin felt the pain that had been there from the start, sharp and intense; pain so fierce, it choked the air. Wincing against it, he moved slowly towards its source: the pallid, gasping woman who lay on a rough-hewn bed in a small bedchamber, propped up by a mountain of pillows.

He wanted to run to her, but slumped against the doorway instead; so shaken, he couldn't speak.

_Mom,_ he mouthed.

Now Cliegg pushed past him. "Shmi, darlin'," he said, brushing the hair from the woman's sticky forehead with a caress. Then he shot Anakin a glare. "This fool boy finally decided to turn up. I told you he was bound to, eventually."

Slowly, Shmi turned to Cliegg with the faintest hint of reproof in her eyes. "You must not…speak of my son so, love. You will break my heart."

"Humph," he grumbled. "Seems he's done a pretty good job of that himself."

She looked at the older man mournfully, then let her gaze fall to her lap.

"All right," Cliegg conceded, then kissed her fiercely. "Gods, I love you. _Damn_ it—!"

"Cliegg, please." She looked worriedly at Anakin. "He doesn't…know."

"_What_ don't I know?" the young man demanded, finding his voice at last. "What's _happened_ to you?"

The couple exchanged glances, and then Cliegg sighed.

"Sit down, son," he said quietly, pointing at a chair. "We have a lot to talk about, and…there isn't much time."

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

Kaima widened her eyes, sure she'd heard wrong. "Two whole wups, all for me?"

"That is right, little girl," said the strange humanoid in the green jacket. "They are all for you _if_ you are telling Vinnie where to find the mother of Anakin Skywalker."

Now the girl frowned. "Why are you looking for Shmi?"

A thin smile. "Vinnie is giving…Shmi…a very special _present_ from her son."

"Oh!" said Kaima, clasping her brown hands. "She'll be happy. Anakin's so nice. I know where she lives; in the fifth house three streets from Slave Quarter's Row. It's got a pretty red cloth in the window. Anakin gave it to her." Stars filled her gray eyes. "Anakin gives her everything. He bought her a big house with _grass, _and _flowers_, and even" —her voice dropped to an awed whisper—"even a _tree._" A blissful sigh, and she went on. "So she's gonna live there now. But she's got stuff here, so she and Threepio—"

"Vinnie is thanking you, little girl," the stranger said coolly, patting her brown curls. "Here is money. Do not be spending it all on candies."

Kaima laughed. "You're _funny,_ Mister. Thank you, Mister!"

But the Devaronian was already walking away.

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

The woman was tired, but she fully owned that it was her fault. After all, she was the one who'd insisted on loading much of the heavier items into the speeder herself. She had ignored the protocol droid's protestations and offers of assistance, and now she was tired. Help was on the way, but it wouldn't finish working until sundown. She was happy to wait. She'd spent her whole life waiting.

Slowly, she leaned against the sturdy wall of her entrance, thinking of all the memories the little home had held. A prick at her eye, and she dashed the tear away with a shake of her head. What was there to cry about?

She sighed. _I must prepare the evening meal, _she thought. _Anakin will_—

Smiling fondly, she shook her head. No, he wouldn't be home soon. The young man had moved into a small place of his own several months ago, but his mother still hadn't adjusted to the change. Perhaps she never would.

A velvet voice interrupted her thoughts. "Please to be excusing me, Mistress Shmi."

Startled, she frowned at the speaker, a bulky Devaronian in a large leather jacket. "Yes?"

He gave a helpless shrug. "Vinnie is sorry to be disturbing you, but he has heard you are having skills in fixing."

A moment's confusion melted into a radiant smile. "You must be thinking of my Ani," she said proudly. "I can make some simple repairs, but Anakin can fix anything."

An odd glitter came into the humanoid's eyes. "Yes. Vinnie is certain it is true. Vinnie will leave it for your…'Ani'." He looked over his shoulder. "Will you, Mistress Shmi, kindly be helping Vinnie move it? It is much weight."

All at once, a pang of terror gripped the woman so fiercely that it nearly toppled her over. She found herself gazing at the Devaronian suspiciously. And then a profound feeling of shame welled in her, triggered by the reproving memory of a little boy she'd known a decade ago.

_"Mom, you always say the biggest problem in this universe is that nobody helps each other."_

_The poor creature, _the woman thought remorsefully. _He probably must deal with this sort of treatment on every world except his own._

"Of course, I'll help you," she said aloud, and gave him a warm smile. "Where is it?"

**.**

**·:·:·**

_**·**_

The moisture farmer was exhausted. Wringing water from the forbidding air of his homeworld often felt like squeezing blood from a stone: the blood came eventually, but it was only because of you. Decades of hard life were finally beginning to take their toll. Still, the man felt a spring in his step at the thought of the evening ahead. He was finally ready, it was finally time, and he couldn't wait to tell her. A grin warmed the weathered features of his face as he pictured her delight at his early arrival. He patted his left shirt pocket. It wouldn't be the only surprise of the evening.

Minutes from her home, he was already moving forward eagerly when two sounds propelled him into an all-out sprint.

The first was the tearing of fabric.

The second: the agonized cries of the woman he loved.

**.**

**·:·:·** ·:·

_**·**_

Cliegg ran a tired hand over his face. "He'd pulled a knife on her. Dragged it right over her heart. Saw me coming and jumped on his swoop bike. Took off."

Rising from his seat, Anakin walked to the bed and eased the coverlets just low enough to see the shallow purple gash beneath Shmi's collarbone. The wound had been meticulously dressed, and now it looked painful, but not serious. He felt hope beginning to stir in him. Over the years of playing sabacc, he'd been able to keep on friendly terms with most of those who lost money to him, but had also made several enemies. He'd always laughed away his mother's worries and reminded her of his age. It had never occurred to him that reprisal might be indirect. But now that the unthinkable had finally happened, everything would be all right, and things would be different from now on.

"Well," he said in mounting relief. "It's horrible, but it could be much worse. I can never thank you enough, Cliegg. If you hadn't been there—"

The older man held up a weary hand. "Don't thank me just yet, boy. It's a lot worse than you realize." He glanced at the vacated chair. "You'd better sit back down."

"All right, I'm sitting. How bad is it?"

"The blade was made with…"—the older man took a scrap of flimsiplast from his pocket—"Devaronian blood poison. Painful to the touch, deadly if it breaks the skin." He paused. "That silly droid's right, boy. Your mother's dying."

Anakin scowled at him. "Why didn't you take her to a med center?"

Cliegg shifted impatiently. "She's too weak to be moved. We sent for emergency med droids, but they told us the only antidote is on Devaron." He scowled. "Might as well be on Coruscant. Planet's past the Inner Rim; all the way in the Colonies. We'd never make it in time, even _if_ we had a way to get there." He hung his head. "She doesn't have a chance, son. There's nothing we can do."

The younger man looked at the older in utter despair. "_Nothing?_"

Cliegg looked away, blinking rapidly. "We tried, Anakin," he said quietly. "The best we could do was pump her full of painkiller and make her as comfortable as possible," He cleared his throat, his eyes on the ceiling. "She's got thirty standard minutes left, at most."

Slipping from the chair, Anakin sank to his knees and put his face in his hands.

_"Thirty standard minutes left."_

The young man began to shudder.

Cliegg watched him for a few moments, then rose from the bed, kissed Shmi gently on the forehead, and turned away. "I'll leave you two alone." As he stood by the door, his heart shone through his eyes. "We…already said our goodbyes."

_Poison, _Anakin kept thinking as the older man carefully closed the door. _Minutes left, at most. Poison…_

"…Ani?"

Looking up, he saw Shmi reaching for him with an arm that had never seemed frail before. Two huge steps, and he was at her side, pulling her into his arms.

"Oh, Mom…"

Patting his back, Shmi soothed the young man as if he were the crechling she could still remember. "I'm…here, Anakin. It's all…right." But her shallow breathing and slowing pulse gave away the lie.

Anakin sat there for a moment more, then moved out of the embrace. If there were really only minutes left, he didn't want to waste them on what couldn't be changed. Still, he needed to understand. "Why?" he asked. "Why poison?"

She closed her dilated eyes in thought. "I think…he wanted you to…find me, Ani." Another shallow breath that barely moved her chest. "He wanted you…to know it was him."

Anakin clenched his jaw so tightly, he thought it would shatter. "I'll kill him."

Shmi's eyes flew open, and for an instant, every trace of weakness left her. _"No,_ Anakin," she said firmly. "Promise me."

Trembling, the young man shook his head. "I won't promise that."

Taking his face in her clammy hands, she gave him a fierce shake. "You must. Promise me you won't try for revenge. That you'll make a good life for yourself." A deep, ragged breath signaled the approaching end of her strange moment of strength. "Promise me you'll leave…this terrible place." When he shook his head again, her eyes welled with tears. "_Please_, Anakin? For me?"

Looking in her face, the young man found himself blinking back his own tears. "For you? Anything." Turning up her swollen palm, he kissed it. "I'll leave, Mom. I won't find him. I promise."

Upon hearing the words, Shmi's anguished face at last sank into peace. "Thank you, love."

Anakin simply held her: wordlessly, desperately willing her to live. But the gifted young man had finally met his match; in his grasp lay the one card over which he had no power. Several moments passed thickly before Shmi spoke again.

"Often," she choked out, struggling with every breath, "Often, I regret you not…leaving with that…Jedi."

She had her left hand on his chin; he clasped the right one to his heart. The modest gold band on her fourth finger was none of his business. "It was my choice, Mom. I wanted to be with you."

By now, the bittersweet smile was a familiar one. "My son," Shmi murmured, stroking his cheek. "My handsome, grown-up son." Another shuddering breath. "Oh, make me proud of you, Ani."

Tears slid down Anakin's face; this time, he didn't try to stop them. "I will, Mom. I promise." Clutching her to him again, he buried his face in her shoulder. "I'll do anything that you ask me; _anything._ Just stay. Please stay. Don't leave me."

Her glistening fingers smoothed his hair. "Anakin…"

Noiseless sobs shook his shoulders. "I'm so _sorry_, Mom. _So_ sorry."

"Ani…"

She was straining to tell him something; straining with all her might. Sensing it, the young man looked up. Finally, haltingly, it came out. "Goodbye…my love," she said in a hoarse whisper. "It's not…your…"

Another long pause, and Anakin shook her urgently. "_Mom?_"

Two brown eyes smiled up at him, but the final word never came. The tender gaze grew cold and still, Shmi's warm fingers fell from his face, and Anakin slipped the dead woman's eyes shut.

* * *

**·:·:·**·:· ·:· ·:·


	10. Away

**·:·:· **·:· ·:· ·:· ·:·

* * *

Haverson tugged a sweaty arm over his brow. It had all ended a half-hour ago, and he had been sweeping ever since: sweeping broken glass from the sand-strewn floor, sweeping splinters from the fragmented table, sweeping ash from beneath the dangling hand of the sleeping young man who'd started all the trouble—the same young man who'd stormed in two hours prior, demanded a Corellian Fog, and hadn't stopped drinking since. Granted, the kid had nursed his first beverage for quite a while, pausing frequently to stare into the distance. He'd very quickly followed it up with a second, though, and halfway through it had taken out a pack of sabacc training cards and begun setting them ablaze one by one. Reinforced flimsiplast was noxious when it burned, and Haverson had itched to ask that the cards be disposed of elsewhere, but a peek at the kid's expression had helped him think better of it. The gray-blue eyes had darkened to nearly black, the jaw kept twitching, and there was an obstinate jut to the chin.

In short, Skywalker had been spoiling for a fight from the start, and if there was one thing Haverson had learned in his decades of barkeeping, it was that when a man was set on fighting, nothing in the galaxy would keep him from it. Still, Haverson had tried. Sweet Tatoo, he had tried. He'd sensed trouble brewing the moment the kid pushed through the entrance, fury curling about him like a vapor, and proceeded to plant himself in the exact center of the seven stools facing the main bar. One glance, and Haverson had instinctively kept the area around Skywalker clear, discouraging away new arrivals with an slight shake of his head. And so the others had cheerfully drunk elsewhere, either pulling up to one of three small tables at the end of the room or leaning against the alcove bar to the far left. In all cases, they gave the stiff-backed young man a wide berth, and Haverson began to congratulate himself on a job well done.

And then it had happened.

To the barkeeper's credit, everything had gone smoothly until the tavern was nearly empty, with only three left besides Skywalker. The trio of males had drunk quite a bit over the course of the evening, but seemed to be handling themselves well. As they rose merrily from the last of the circular tables, Haverson attempted to make eye contact with each of them in turn, and in the end succeeded with all but one: a youngish Nautolan who'd had a drop too much ale. Laughing and gesticulating wildly, the humanoid made his giddy way to the exit, not paying the slightest attention to where he was going—and made the mistake of bumping into Skywalker on his way past. More specifically, one of his green tendrils slapped the kid on the back of the head.

Haverson froze, but it was too late. A lightning-quick motion, and the Nautolan writhed on the ground, clutching his side.

"Kestrel!" one of his companions cried, running to him. Then the burnt-orange Zabrak looked up angrily. "That bloke jabbed him in the gut!"

The burly and middle-aged third of the group stepped forward menacingly. "I think you owe my friend an apology, boy."

Skywalker merely shrugged. "I think your 'friend' should learn to watch where he's going." Turning his back, he took another sip of his drink.

"Oh, it's a little punk, innit?" the Zabrak said in his high tenor, rising from the floor and crossing the room. "Someone should give him a lesson in manners, I think."

The bald man growled his agreement.

"You're right; someone should," Skywalker said softly. "It won't be you guys, though." Flexing his fingers, he curled them into loose fists. "But I'll enjoy watching you try."

At this, the near-human smiled nastily. "What do you say, Drik?"

Drik's grin revealed several missing teeth. He shoved a fist into his meaty palm with a loud _smack_, then cracked his knuckles. "I say we send him cryin' to his momma."

From the cold look the young man now gave his beverage, Haverson could tell that this had been the _wrong_ thing to say. In a final, desperate effort, he tried to intercede. "Now, boys…" he began.

The man called Drik didn't even look up. "T'ain't your affair, old man," he said. "You'd best keep out of it."

The Nautolan had finally begun to come around. Grasping the alcove bar, he rose unsteadily to his feet, still wincing in pain. "Whaa…?" he said uncertainly.

"It's all right, Kestrel," the Zabrak soothed, not taking his eyes from the young man's back. "We'll handle this."

With an assenting grunt, Drik grabbed the kid's shoulder to spin him around.

And just before Skywalker swung the first blow, Haverson could swear he saw him smile.

**.**

·:·

_**·**_

Once the fighting had begun in earnest, all the older man could do was sink beneath his bar, pull out the nip of brandy he kept on hand for such occasions, and watch the proceedings from a small holomonitor while he waited for it to be over.

It had been a blur from the start. Drik had gone flying, the Zabrak had had the air knocked from him, and all of that before the young man left his stool. Not that the kid hadn't gotten his war wounds. It was two on one, and with each about twice his size, the odds were certainly not in his favor. To further complicate matters, the Nautolan rallied half-way through the fray and flung himself in with a loud screech. But what the young man lacked in size and numbers, he made up for in ferocity and the series of inexplicable accidents that befell his opponents. They kept slipping and falling, several times bumping into tables and chairs, but just as often tripping over items that weren't there. Meanwhile, Skywalker _never _tripped. He was knocked down, yes; but never tripped. He managed to avoid the furnishings as nimbly as he avoided most of the blows aimed at him. And he never stopped laughing. He laughed when the Zabrak threw him into a table, cracking it down the middle. He laughed when the bald man swung at his face and got his nose bashed in for his pains. He even laughed when the Nautolan smashed a half-empty bottle of ale over his head, though the liquid stung his eyes and made him cough a bit. He was laughing when he flung the Nautolan through a window.

In the end, he'd won, and with his adversaries unconscious, the young man had sat back on his bar stool, lit a cig with trembling hands, and ordered another drink.

Haverson pulled himself carefully from beneath the bar, glanced at the three fallen males, and scurried about mixing the beverage: a Socorran Speeder Bomb. Once it was ready, ignoring the gashes on his neck and bruises on his face, Skywalker began to drink. Haverson watched him nervously, but as it turned out, he needn't have worried. In the middle of the Socorran, the young man pushed his glass away, tucked his head into his elbow, and was soon dozing with an arm stretched over the bar, a cig stump tucked snugly in his fingers. Asleep, he looked even younger than he surely was; with his long lashes and tousled hair, he seemed only a boy. As Haverson peered at him, a bit of sorrow seeped from Skywalker's right eye, slipping through streaks of dried blood to trace the side of his nose. In spite of all the trouble he'd caused, the barkeep found himself pitying the young man. Clearly something terrible had happened for him to pick such a senseless fight. A bad breakup, probably.

With a shrug, Haverson set about tidying his establishment. He dragged the felled three onto a set of collapsible med cots he kept beneath the main bar, then dragged the chairs back to their proper positions. He was tempted to drag the young man from his stool—it was _0535,_ for Tat's sake—but again thought better of it. He'd just finished his sweeping and was wiping a counter with seltzer when he heard the tinkling of bells and braced himself. A broad path had been cleared around Skywalker; now there was no reason for anyone to so much as breathe on him. The barkeep fervently hoped another incident could be avoided, but these hopes dimmed as he saw a burly man walking toward the sleeping figure with some determination.

_Leave him alone, friend,_ he found himself praying. _He's a lot more trouble than he looks._

With one hand on the counter and the other clutching his brandy, Haverson prepared for the worst.

**.**

·:· ·:·

_**·**_

Anakin was having a wonderful dream. In it, he flew through the warm air of a bright day. Far beneath him, in an enormous pasture of fragrant, flowing grass, a young couple was having a picnic. Anakin could make out the face of neither, but the odd hairstyle of the man—military-short in the front; long enough in the back to be gathered into a small bundle—gave away his profession: a Jedi. This particular Jedi had uncharacteristically paired his brown robe with a large vest of black synthleather. With his dueling garments, the young man seemed to be struggling against his better nature.

The young woman, however, appeared to have no such conflictions; she was simply beautiful: strikingly, dizzyingly so. Anakin arrived at this conclusion by observing how fixedly her companion was gazing at her; clearly, she had his rapt attention. In her billowing flower of a pale-yellow dress, it was impossible to say how she occupied herself when not at picnic, but she was undoubtedly lovely at it.

Smiling, Anakin flew higher, leaving them alone. A lone cloud hung motionless in the pale blue sky, throwing a large fringe of mountains into sharp relief. It had slowly begun drifting towards the glowing sun when Anakin heard it start to speak and drew back in confusion.

"Mornin', Lars!" it barked. "What can I get you?"

Now thunder rumbled above the picnic, but the couple, lost in each other, didn't look up. As the cloud crept over the sun and they slowly began fading from view, the thunder, too, began to speak. It began by grunting.

"Humph," it said irritably. "Seems to me you've handed out enough for a week. Poor kid's out like a synthlamp."

The cloud gave a ridiculously overdone laugh, and Anakin woke up at last, wincing away from the loud noise. Through one squinted eye, he observed Cliegg Lars standing at his side, a relieved expression seeping into his gruff features. Through the other, he saw the barkeep nodding in satisfaction as he put his brandy away.

A pause, and then the moisture farmer jerked a thumb at the three prostrate figures. "What's all this?"

Anakin cracked his neck, then winced, his hand going to the back of his head. "They got on my nerves."

At this, Cliegg simply nodded. "Been looking for you for two days, son," he said after a moment's pause. "Nearly sent a search party after you."

Anakin blinked. _Two days?_ "I've been right here," he said aloud, then frowned at the blood staining his fingers. "I think."

"Oh. Thought maybe you'd gone after…"

"No." The young man stared vacantly ahead. "She made me promise I wouldn't."

A low chuckle. "I thought she might. It's like her." Pulling up a stool, Cliegg sat heavily upon it. "But I didn't hear that part. A few farmers and I hunted that demon down. Him and his friends." His mouth drew a grim line. "They didn't die clean."

Anakin nodded numbly. "Thank you, sir."

"I was hoping"—a pause, and then the older man tried again—"I was hoping we could bury your mother on the farm."

In the ensuing silence, the young man began looking himself over more carefully. Dipping a disposable cloth into his lukewarm drink, he began dabbing at his split knuckles, flinching as the alcohol seeped into the cuts. "I think you should," he said at last. "She would have wanted it."

The moisture farmer gazed at him in open gratitude. "I appreciate that, son. We'll do the best we can for her."

Anakin nodded again, then looked away, tapping the sides of the glass with his fingertips.

Cliegg shifted on his stool. "What'll you do now?"

A gulp of the drink and a grimace. "I don't know."

The older man cleared his throat. "You know you...always have a place, out on the moisture farm with Owen and me." He patted the young man's shoulder awkwardly. "We'd be glad to have you. Heck, you're practically family."

Anakin knew he'd be miserable there, but nodded anyway. "Thank you," he said again.

A final pat, and Cliegg rose to his feet. "I'd better head on out." And then he smiled. "That droid'll be happy."

The young man looked up in alarm. "Droid?"

"An astromech. Little R2 unit. It came rolling by the morning after"—he blinked rapidly—"After. That Threepio of yours was finally good for something; told me it had a message for us."

"From whom?"

Cliegg frowned. "Some strange old man in a robe. Said we should call as soon as we found you. I thought maybe it was one of them Jedi, but I didn't see a laser sword. And…there was somethin' about him I couldn't put my finger on. Somethin' off." Suddenly, he gave Anakin a sharp look. "This old fellow; is he friendly? You're not in any more trouble, are you?"

The young man smiled bitterly. "He's fine. I don't recall beating him at Sabacc."

An awkward pause. "Well. I'd better get back and tell him where you are, then." Another pause, and Cliegg jerked his chin at the near-empty glass. "Careful on that swill, son. It'll bite you back."

As the moisture farmer shuffled out, Anakin obediently pushed his glass aside. The moment Cliegg was gone, though, he bolted its contents down and signaled for another.

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

A few hours later, he teetered on his stool with slumped shoulders, his head buried in his hands. The tap on his arm nearly sent him to the ground. Clutching the bar, he looked up with red-rimmed eyes to see, not the chancellor's hologram, but the chancellor himself, bundled in dark robes, gazing at him in relief and triumph.

"And here you are. I'd feared you might have gone elsewhere."

Worry peeped through the young man's bleary eyes. "You didn't...get your repairs?" he asked, slurring slightly. "I gave Artoo the passcode."

A small step back, a single sweeping glance, and the older man put two and two together. The barkeep's shift had ended, and a droid currently manned the bar, but the males on the med cots had yet to revive. Palpatine paused delicately. "Friends of yours?" he ventured at last.

A snort. "Not exactly." Sighing, Anakin put his head back in his hands. "You shouldn't be here, Your Excellency. It isn't safe."

Palpatine looked pointedly at the young man's roughly-bandaged knuckles. "So I gather." A moment's silence, and he sat down. "I have come to thank you, my friend. Although I can never truly repay you for your kindness...and for your sacrifice."

Anakin gritted his teeth. "I should have known better. If I had _just_ followed Vinnie..."

"Perhaps you would have been killed, as well," the chancellor replied softly. "You live in a rather rough world, Anakin."

"Not by choice. I've spent my whole life dreaming of getting away from this place."

"What's kept you?"

The young man looked at him blankly. "I stayed for my mother." Shrugging, he took another gulp of his drink. "Watto wouldn't free both of us, so she couldn't go with me."

It was at this point that Palpatine calmly took the glass away and set it out of reach. "Go with you where?"

Anakin opened his mouth to explain, then shut it, suddenly feeling decades older than his nineteen years. "Some other time, Chancellor."

A long pause. "I'm concerned about you, Anakin."

"I'm not your problem."

Another lengthy silence, and then the older man began taking quiet, decisive action. Removing the burnt-out cig from the young man's fingers, he handed it to the bar droid for disposal, then motioned for a moist towelette and requested a strong cup of caf. As the droid prepared the caf, Palpatine handed the towelette to Anakin, who obediently wiped his face and neck with it and then began rubbing away at sticky bits of his jacket.

"Perhaps not," the chancellor said, replying at last to the young man's emphatic statement. "And yet I feel responsible for my part in causing this tragedy." Folding his hands on the bar, he looked at them gravely. "I shall never forgive myself, Anakin."

"Fresh cuppa Core caf," announced the bar droid, setting down a small mug and saucer.

Anakin sniffed the caf, then made a face at it.

The chancellor laughed. "Come now, my boy. I'm sure you've had far worse."

Slowly, the young man began taking small sips of the hot, bitter beverage. It did nothing for his pounding head, but he did find himself beginning to feel a bit more alert.

Meanwhile, the chancellor went on speaking in his soothing, lulling voice. "It's clear you are suffering, my friend. But you must waste no more time in this desolate world that has never been worthy of you. I know I can never replace what you have lost, but I can do all in my power to give you a better life."

_"Promise me you'll leave…this terrible place."_

Swallowing hard, Anakin looked away.

In the softest of whispers, Palpatine persisted, laying a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Is there _nothing_ I can do for you, Anakin?"

Reflexively, the young man checked his wrist chrono. _0947_. Had it really been only two mornings since the oasis? Another moment's thought, and then, abruptly: "Will you take me with you?"

"Where shall I take you?" Palpatine asked gently.

"Anywhere you like." He looked at the older man with a strange intensity. "Will you take me away from this place?"

The chancellor smiled. "I should be honored to." Rising carefully to his feet, he half-guided, half-carried the young man as he stumbled from the bar.

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

Several hours, a bacta wash, and a change of garments later, Anakin was feeling a bit more like himself. It helped that Tatooine and its suns were now a distant speck, growing ever fainter as the Nubian starship glided for Coruscant.

_Good riddance, _he thought, passing the last in a series of small viewports festooning the corridor. _Although I will miss Threepio._

As he approached what had once been the royal throne room, he shivered violently. Three long-sleeved garments, an overwrap, and a large jacket, but the chill of space cut through them all like a laser through butter. Pausing uncertainly at the wide threshold, he blew on his gloved hands, then tucked them in his armpits.

"Chancellor?"

Palpatine turned expectantly from the enormous viewport at the end of the room. "Ah, Anakin," he said, smiling broadly. "I'd hoped you'd join me." He paused. "How are you feeling?"

Anakin coughed a little, then grinned wryly. "Cold, sir. But I know that wasn't your question." He stood a bit straighter. "I'd rather not talk about it, if that's all right."

"Certainly, my friend," the older man said briskly. "I trust you find your quarters to your liking?"

Anakin bowed. "You are most generous, Your Excellency."

"Nonsense," the chancellor said with a wave of his hand. "I merely endeavor to pay my debts." Walking around a large conference table, he handed the young man a delicately-wrought, expensive-looking datachip.

Stepping into the room at last, Anakin scanned the chip in an embedded confirmation reader, then frowned. "There's been a mistake. The reader shows five hundred thousand credits on this card."

Palpatine had returned to his viewport. "Yes. I was able to have an additional three hundred thousand wired yesterday morning."

The young man shook his head. "The mistake is that you only owed me about a hundred and ninety."

The chancellor clasped his hands behind his back. "Well. The 'Hutt tax' you mentioned is indeed exorbitant, I find." He turned from the viewport with a small smile. "Really, Anakin, a few extra credits are the least I can do to compensate you for your loss."

_"…to compensate you for your loss."_

Anakin's veins filled with ice. "What, so this is where you buy me off? No amount of money will ever bring her back." Slamming the chip on the elegant table, he shoved it back at the older man. "Keep your credits." As the datachip skidded to the floor with a faint clatter, Anakin looked away, his jaw twitching. "Apologies, Chancellor. I meant no disrespect."

"It's quite all right," Palpatine said softly, walking to where the chip had fallen. "You have every reason to be angry. With that creature, with that planet…and even with me, Anakin."

The young man didn't respond.

Picking up the chip, Palpatine began examining it carefully. "I suspect, however, that you are primarily angry with yourself. You feel that, had you been stronger, you might have saved her; she might have lived."

Anakin shifted impatiently. The chancellor read him far too easily. They'd only been acquainted a few days, yet he already seemed transparent to the older man, down to his smallest nerve, and he found it deeply disturbing. Turning away, he began walking from the room.

"A pity, isn't it?"

Pausing at the threshold, he glanced back, curious in spite of himself. "What is?"

There was an inscrutable expression on the older man's face. "That one can't cheat death."

Now Anakin stared at Palpatine outright. He was still staring when the buzz of a holotransmitter brought him back to himself and, shaking his head, he again began exiting the chamber.

Glancing at the caller verification, the chancellor held up a finger. "One moment, Anakin. There is someone I would very much like you to meet."

A large column of blue light appeared in the center of the conference table, quickly dissolving into the image of an imposing male Chagrian in flowing robes of state who started, then bowed deeply. "Supreme Chancellor Palpatine," he said grandly. "What a relief to find you safe from harm." A glance over his shoulder, and the Chagrian lowered his voice to a hush. "The whispers of your demise were becoming difficult to counter, given your three-week absence. I had worried they would soon break out of containment."

"I had thought as much," Palpatine replied coolly. "Idle chatter, in keeping with the bureaucratic nonsense cluttering the Senate. No matter; I shall arrive within the week to address all such rumors personally." A smile. "Meanwhile, your call is most fortuitous. I have an errand for you, Vice-Chancellor. Come here, Anakin."

The Chagrian official turned a disparaging eye on the tall figure stepping into view, his chilly blue gaze taking in the bacta patches, the thick garments, the fading bruises; the young man even appeared to possess the vague remnants of a black eye.

_How quaint_, he thought.

"Anakin Skywalker, may I present Mas Amedda, Vice-Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. Mas Amedda, Anakin."

As the two males exchanged bows, the vice-chancellor's cold smile resembled more a sneer than anything else. "I don't believe I have had the...pleasure...of meeting you before."

Anakin met the hard look evenly. "No, I'm pretty new around here."

Palpatine's gaze flicked from one to the other, and then he stepped to the right, effectively shifting Amedda's scowl from Anakin. "Now then, Vice-Chair. I wish to discuss with you something of critical importance."

Another glance at Anakin, and Mas Amedda again lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "Hadn't we better handle such matters in private, Your Excellency?"

"Not at all. The matter concerns this young man."

The Chagrian curled his lip. "Indeed."

Palpatine smiled. "Anakin Skywalker is an ally of mine, Vice-Chair. He has been of immeasurable assistance to me recently, and I wish to see him properly settled on Coruscant at once. You needn't attend to it yourself, naturally. But I do wish it done."

Mas Amedda gave Anakin a frosty glare. "Excuse us, please." He then turned away entirely, leaving the young man staring at his broad back. "Chancellor, I fear I must protest."

Palpatine regarded him calmly. "Must you really? It's a fairly simple directive. I wish you to see this young man settled comfortably in the Senate District of Coruscant immediately following his arrival. I will take matters from there. I don't expect you to house him in 500 Republica, but there must surely be a vacant residence nearby." A pause. "Of course, I can always have Pestage handle the matter if you are otherwise occupied at present."

The tip of a lethorn flicked impatiently. "It's nothing to find a vacant residence or to put someone out of one if none are available." The Chagrian leaned forward emphatically. "But, Chancellor, we know nothing _of_ him."

"Uh, sir? Maybe I'd better go."

"Nonsense, Anakin." Palpatine looked Mas Amedda dead in the eye. "You will do exactly as I've instructed you, Vice-Chancellor, down to the letter. You will see Commander Skywalker perfectly at home on his new world."

Here the vice-chancellor looked a bit dazed. He shook his horns in confusion. "I will…" And then he jerked up his chin. "Your Excellency." A stiff bow, and the holotransmission wavered out.

As the blue column disappeared, Palpatine shut his eyes. "The burden of duty," he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing deeply. Then he glanced up at the young man who had appeared on his left. "Well. What do you make of it, my boy?"

Grinning, Anakin quirked a brow. "'Commander'?"

"Do you like it?"

"Wouldn't I need an army for that?"

Another unreadable expression passed over the chancellor's face. "Indeed."

A clap on the shoulder, a gentle smile, and Palpatine began easing the young man forward, steering him in the direction of the dining chamber.

"I shall order you one directly."

**.**

**·:·:·**

_**·**_

And so it had begun. In the weeks that followed, Anakin found himself flung into the dizzying world of politics, power, and intrigue; a world in which he felt acutely uncomfortable. Meanwhile, the chancellor's generosity appeared to know no bounds. After seeing him settled in a splendid dwelling in the upper levels of Coruscant, he sent Anakin to elocution lessons, trained him to fly starships, and brought current his rudimentary knowledge of galactic affairs, all the while refusing to permit the young man to spend a single credit. He was lavished upon by fawning courtiers, anything he glanced at was instantly his...and Anakin was terribly bored.

In a strange sense, he felt himself drowning; caught in a web from which he couldn't see his way clear. Something had to be done, but what? The answer came to him in the middle of his eighty-first night on Coruscant.

**.**

**·:·:· **·:·

_**·**_

The chancellor looked up from his data console in alarm. "Away? Where?"

"Not off-planet," Anakin said reassuringly. "Just a few levels down, where it's quieter."

Palpatine laughed. "We appear to have rather different metrics for 'quiet', Anakin. _I_ find the lower levels extremely loud and entirely disagreeable." A pause. "I had hoped you were beginning to feel at home here."

The young man began to rush forward, but caught himself and stood at attention instead. "I don't wish to sound ungrateful, Your Excellency. I'd just like to be left alone for a while. I'd like to try making my own way."

Palpatine eyed him meaningfully. "And how do you propose to do that?"

Anakin flushed. "I told you, I'll never play again. But I still have the five hundred thousand you gave me, plus interest." He paused. "I thought I'd open a shop or two."

Here the older man _tsk_ed disdainfully. "A shop?"

He shrugged. "I'm beginning to miss my droids. I think my fingers are starting to cramp up." He shifted from one foot to the other. "And honestly, sir, I'm just not comfortable with…all of this. It's too much."

Palpatine considered, then shook his head. "But down with the Twilighters; the brutes and the dregs? Really, my boy; is that wise?"

Anakin set his jaw. "I've made up my mind, Chancellor."

A sigh, and the older man held up his hands. "Very well, Anakin. But you will come and see me now and again, won't you? I should very much hate to lose track of you."

Anakin smiled in spite of himself. It was touching how fond Palpatine had grown of him in such a short time. "Certainly, Your Excellency," he said, and bowed. "Whenever you wish."

**.**

**·:·:· **·:· ·:·

_**·**_

Thus, Anakin had escaped to the lower levels and lived as quietly as possible, all the while trying to forget. Whenever a memory of the fateful day emerged, he'd immediately shoved it down. But tonight, it had all come flooding back.

_"Goodbye...my love."_

Anakin leaned heavily against the bronzium rail. His mother. To the very end, she'd only thought of him. How often had he thrown it in her face?

_"It's not…your…_"

He looked at the duracrete shimmering thousands of meters below him in disgust. Not his fault? Of course it was his fault. And now, here he was, hobnobbing with the regalia, reaping the benefits of blessings he didn't deserve.

Stretching his arms above his head, he arched backward, swaying a bit. As he swung them down again, he caught sight of his wrist chrono. _0340_. The express turbolift would have him at the indoor speeder lot in minutes, but from there, it was still nearly an hour to the Jedi Temple. With the starfighter briefing less than two hours away, there was little use trying for sleep at this point.

Instead, Anakin ran a finger under each eye, yawned hugely, and went indoors, tugging off his shirt as he went. After throwing himself in the 'fresher for a few minutes, he pulled on a new set of garments without bothering to towel off. Within ten minutes, he was back at his balcony, shivering in the damp clothes.

And there, with his elbows propped on the railing and his fists beneath his chin, Anakin Skywalker watched the glittering lights of Coruscant as they dimmed into dawn.

* * *

**·:·:· **·:· ·:· ·:· ·:·


	11. Cause For Alarm

**·:·:·** **·:·:·**

* * *

There had been a tree; that much she remembers. A tree: light scintillating in its leaves, specks of shine caught in its boughs, its roots, in the bend of its trunk. A moment's thought, and it dissolves into view for her now, green flecks fluttering atop graceful limbs, rough curves swaying prettily beneath, back arching as it reaches for the sun. She walks to it, she puts her hand out in welcome. A caress, and her palm is left warm and sticky with

_\- blood -_

tree sap. A heady whiff transports her to times long past, friends and places long gone, to blissful treks through the wooded glens of Naboo, to starlit picnics with fat berries that smell of summer. If she squeezes her lips tight, she can almost taste them: fresh and sweet, warmed through with the heat, just tart enough to be enthralling. Berries for buckets, buckets for mommies, and Papa's arms carrying you home.

Home.

The comforts of home, bundled and toasty, as Papa warms you by the fire. And when Mommy smiles, and when Papa laughs, then the war worries smooth from his brow for a while, and he's younger than you've ever known him. The cozies of nap-time, snuggled with Sola, amid sighs as the house settles into silence. And you wake to the sight of your mother at work, half buried in berries, sleeves tugged to the elbows, arms heavily dusted with

_\- ash -_

with flour, as she labors at pasties, the thick, gooey pasties that threaten to bind your teeth together. And after you've eaten, Papa stirs up the hearth, and he does the old dances and sings the old songs, and everyone crows along, because there've been races and treasures and heaps of new friends, and hasn't it been a glorious sap harvest? And you know—in that moment, you truly know—you'll never in your life forget the

_\- mangled bodies, limbs sprinkled with silt, hands stretched for a final embrace._

She had been loved.

_**Peace. Serenity. 'There is the Force.'**_

She draws her thoughts back to the tree. A thin coating of moss leaves bits of it soft and springy, _just like Papa's_—no, she won't think about Papa's beard. Instead, she fills her senses with the sounds of the forest, the shushing of spring between delicate blossoms, the burble of creeks tumbling through rocks, the incessant twittering of—

Sirens.

—of birds. And now, she can see them, tiny blurs of motion in a myriad of hues. She sees them hopping from limb to twig, all the while bickering like gossiping, chattering—

Sirens.

_**Breathe. Focus. Attend to the 'now'. Feel the wind wash over you. Smell the dew-kissed leaves. Hear the chirping of the**_—

Blaringly _loud _sirens.

**.**

·:·

_**·**_

Padmé's eyes slid open. The briefest spike of irritation was laid gently to rest. "What is it?" she queried the empty, vaulted room, but there came no response. She peered at its many columns, each with ivy running clear to the clerestory, yet all was silence. The padawan waited in the thick of it for several moments longer, reaching for patience, reaching for calm. Her eyes had just slipped shut again when they suddenly snapped wide. A shake of her head, and then, rising to her feet as rapidly as decorum would permit, she made swiftly for the main hangar.

**.**

·:· ·:·

_**·**_

"_Temple Tower, Jedi Starfighter oh seven three, five klicks southeast, requesting full stop."_

"_Fighter oh seven three, state altitude and bearing."_

"_Ohseventree level thirteen thousand with echo."_

"_Copy seventree, cleared to land, winds oh niner at ten knots; welcome home."_

In a large, curved room with large, curved terminals, a lone technician eyed his screen pensively. A sweep of brown hair above troubled gray eyes, receding temples, and ruddy cheeks; he was new to the Tower, unsure what was next. The others had radar with green blips on green circles; his was a real-time heat sensor meant to reveal what lay beyond the green blips and give clarity. No clarity was presently to be had.

A few silent taps of finger against lip, and the technician tried again. "Unidentified starfighter, state altitude and bearing."

No response. Perhaps the transponder was out. Once more, then.

"Unidentified starfighter, please squawk IDENT. Once more, unidentified, squawk IDENT; over."

Again, nothing. The technician fought down his bewilderment—he was fresh out of training; it would never do—and yet…

The vehicle wasn't responding to hails, wasn't keeping to its lane, wasn't behaving at all like a Jedi starfighter. The technician began to wonder whether it _was _a Jedi starfighter. It certainly wasn't being piloted with typical Jedi restraint. Rather than proceeding to the hangar in an orderly fashion, it wound giddily past the other real-time smudges, refusing to wait its turn in queue, cutting through airlanes by the half-dozen, ignoring nearly every ordinance committed to writing.

It wasn't the first he'd longed for Jedi eyes.

A Jedi wouldn't have needed such primitivities as radar and heat sensors—a Jedi would have seen clear through the black of night as if through broad day—but the Jedi couldn't be bothered with the banalities of air traffic control, even when it pertained to their own starfighters. So the task had been contracted to non-Jedi, and the resultant information, if pertinent, was collated, checked against manifests, and handed on via formal report. Any issues of note were, of course, passed to the Jedi, but a contractor's unspoken task was to keep such issues to a minimum. And thus the technician was unsure what was next.

A crowd began to gather.

"Looks like you've a live one, Tiny," laughed one of his colleagues, a Duros with a number of years under his belt.

"That is one fast Jedi," agreed another, a Sullustan. "Look at him go!"

"You know you'll have to slow him down, Blanning," a third onlooker put in, a bit reprovingly. "What are you on about, letting him get away with that?"

Devrick 'Tiny' Blanning kept as calm as he could. "I've hailed him several times already, Flynn. He isn't responding." There came a hesitant pause. "Shall I—" He tried again. "Shall I comm Lessek?"

Now the discomfort spread through the room, resulting in a long and awkward silence. Finally, one man was brave enough to speak, the words flowing from a startling red beard beneath even more startling blue eyes. "Arrah," proclaimed the beard, "'tis early yet. Day's scant slipped from its sheets. Best not to trouble him until later."

"Trouble me about what?"

One rarely sneaks up on a Jedi, but the men weren't Jedi, and so they flinched. The voice they'd just heard could not be mistaken: cool and crisp, with a hint of ice, and beneath it the flattish giveaway of a Mid-Rim origin.

"Trouble me about what?" Agent Lessek repeated, striding into the room. Before him huddled a bundle of technicians clustered worriedly about a single screen, clacking away, clearly hoping to resolve the matter at hand before Lessek showed up.

Lessek already had shown up, and now he spoke for the third time. "What's all this?" he demanded.

They looked guiltily at one another.

"It's just that..." the newest technician began, then noticed the others warning him with their eyes, motioning for him to be quiet. He decided to say something else. "We're just seeing to the implementation of Jedi-Come-Home, Agent Lessek." Which was perfectly true.

Still, smelling a womp rat, Agent Lessek edged past the ring of bodies with an iron-eyed glare. "I'll have a look for myself, _if _you don't mind." He needn't have bothered saying so; it was clear to all he'd have a look whether they minded or not. His pale green gaze first fell on the uppermost screen, which displayed the best standard radar could offer: a series of orderly blips. As he peered critically at it, Tiny continued his redacted explanation.

"The Jedi continue to return their starfighters to the specified coordinates. We expect them all to have arrived within the next standard day or so."

"Good, good." There actually came an approving nod. "Looks like everything's being sorted properly for once." Agent Lessek sounded almost disappointed. Then he caught sight of the real-time screen, and a gleam came in his eye. "But _this _one," he proclaimed, jabbing a fleshy finger at the terminal, "is completely out of order. Hail that starfighter immediately."

All the while, the red-bearded technician had been examining the heat sensor carefully. Now he spoke again. "'Tisn't a starfighter at all, sir. 'Tis an airspeeder."

Beneath its shock of silver, Lessek's brow furrowed. "It that case, it has no business here whatever, and ought to have been informed accordingly."

"We know, sir," returned the placating Tiny. "We've tried. But he isn't responding to communications."

Agent Lessek lifted a salt-and-pepper brow. "Oh? Isn't he?" And he seized the transmitter. "Unidentified aircraft, this is Temple Hangar. You have unlawfully entered Jedi air; you are _not_ cleared to land. Please to return to civilspace immediately."

The glowing speck continued its manic descent, and the skin about Lessek's knuckles drew taut. His neck swelled past the edges of its collar; he again spoke into the transmitter. "Unidentified airspeeder, I repeat, you _are not cleared_. Please immediately exit Jedi space; we _will _engage; this _is_ your final warning."

No response, no change in trajectory, and there now came a sudden beeping.

Lessek glanced up. "How far off is he?"

"Eighty standard seconds, sir."

The beeps were increasing in pitch and frequency. When they conjoined, the sirens would begin.

Lessek nodded grimly, easing his white-knuckled grip. "Summon the brutes."

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

Within instants, three brutes, two technicians, and one agent sprinted the bisecting pathway of the main hangar, eyes strained nearly shut as they peered through the mist. They'd no sooner reached the outer perimeter of the landing pad when a jet-black speeder came hurtling through the air, plummeting at such incredible velocity, it seemed certain to smash into the duracrete. Instead, meters from impact, the mysterious and recalcitrant pilot, the pilot who had refused to hail, eased expertly back on the throttle, the vehicle settled smoothly to the designated half-meter above the ground, and its engine purred silent.

The brutes _were_ Jedi, and so moved quickly past their shock, rapidly surrounding the speeder, such that when the pilot—a young human—put back his heavily tinted canopy, he abruptly found the hot end of a 'saber pike sizzling dangerously at the base of his throat.

"Whoa," Anakin muttered, putting up his hands. "Good morning."

**.**

·:· ·:· ·:· ·:·

_**·**_

Jedi did not run through the corridors, and so Padmé walked. Briskly. She'd nearly reached Temple Hangar when a set of familiar-sounding sirens rang out, and she broke into an all-out run. Jedi _were _permitted to run in case of emergencies, and surely a host of sirens going off qualified as such. Using the Force to quicken her pace, she sped into the hangar just in time to see the head brute ignite his 'saber.

"I don't _do _mornings," she heard him snarl, and ran faster.

"Wait!" she called, reaching the small group at last.

Five of the six accosters turned to her quizzically; the sixth—the head brute—kept his gaze and his weapon fixed firmly on Anakin.

For his part, the young pilot looked noticeably relieved at the sight of Padmé, but was careful to keep his hands up. "She can vouch for me," he said eagerly.

The head brute ignored him. "Good day, Padawan," he intoned, eschewing the customary bow so as to keep his weapon where it hung.

Glancing at the others, she spotted a familiar face. "Agent Lessek," she said urgently. "I know this individual. His business is authorized. Please call off the brutes."

"This is a job for the professionals, Padawan Naberrie," Lessek said coolly. "You needn't trouble yourself."

There now came a calm voice from a corner all had thought empty. "Stand down, Agent Lessek," it said. They all looked. There, half in shadow, beneath a pulled-back sweep of blond just beginning to lose its shine, loomed the sharp gaze and determined brow of the Order's Battlemaster.

"Cripes," muttered a technician. "Who sent for the Troll?"

The blue eyes twinkled as the Jedi emerged from his corner; it was clear he didn't mind the less-than-flattering nickname. "I've been here for some time, Flynn."

Lessek came to himself at last, and the thin, pliable mouth drew tight. "The situation's being sorted, Master Drallig," he said testily. "We don't always need your help to do our job."

Cin Drallig looked pointedly at the problematic speeder, very unauthorizedly plopped in the middle of Temple Hangar's main landing platform, its occupant surrounded by armed brutes. "So I see." Turning, he gestured towards Padmé. "Padawan Naberrie spoke to you just now, and you ignored her. I believe she said this young man is in her charge."

The padawan inclined her head. "It's true, Master Drallig. Commander Skywalker is here on Jedi business."

With obvious reluctance, the brute accosting Anakin put down his blade.

Meanwhile, the battlemaster frowned. "Why hasn't he a pass?"

"Because I...failed to give him one. It was an oversight on my part."

"What _I'd_ like to know," the head brute fairly spat, "Is where he gets off thinking he doesn't have to respond when hailed. And how he missed the plasma bolts from the tower snipers. And who authorized him to cut through 'Jedi Come Home' and plant his _air_speeder on a _fighter_ landing pad."

Cin smiled at the head brute's characteristic lack of comportment, then turned to the pilot, still in his speeder harnessings. "Well, Commander?"

The young man looked uncomfortable. "I was running late. Got stuck in air traffic."

"And the hails?" demanded Lessek.

He looked a bit surprised. "Didn't they see the insignia?"

"What insignia?"

Keeping a cautious eye on the glowering head brute, who still wielded the saber 'pike as though eager to use it, Anakin pointed to the upper rear of the vehicle. There, in curt contrast to the obsidian backdrop, reposed a scarlet Seal of the Galactic Republic, trimmed in gold; patent evidence of the highest clearance possible. Put plainly, there was nowhere the young man _couldn't_ fly, starfighters or no starfighters.

"And the hails?" pressed Lessek with his cold green gaze.

Anakin smiled. "Airspeeders don't have transponders."

"Harrumph," said the head brute, holstering his pike and walking away.

The young man seemed glad to see him go. "So…can I get out of my speeder now?"

Lessek turned on his heel and left without another word. At last free to leave the vehicle, Anakin stepped gingerly down from it, then looked at Padmé expectantly. But it was Cin Drallig who spoke.

"Have a moment or so to get your bearings, Commander Skywalker. I wish a word with Padawan Naberrie."

He inclined his head. "Certainly, Master Jedi. I'll begin my preliminary inspection."

Cin waited while the young man stepped out of earshot, then turned to Padmé, hands clasped behind his back. A moment's pause, and he nodded at her lightsaber, motionless where it hung. "It'll not do you a bit of good, there."

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. The 'saber hadn't moved from where she'd clipped it that morning.

The blue eyes narrowed. "If it's to save your life, you mustn't be afraid of it."

She nodded, clutching it wordlessly.

He leaned forward slightly. "Be mindful of the _living_ Force, young Padawan."

"Yes, Master Drallig."

A pause, and his voice lowered. "Bespin was a long time ago."

She faltered for an instant, then found her breath once more. "Yes, Master," she said again, avoiding the keen stare. Cin Drallig was a kind man, whatever the technicians thought, but he saw too much.

Another moment to let the words sink in, and now he spoke casually. "It's been some time since we've gone over your Niman, hasn't it?"

"It has," Padmé admitted. "Not since I was switched over to it from—"

"Yes," nodded Cin. "It has been some time, indeed." He looked at her again, and then, out it came: the whole reason they'd been having this little chat. "So I'll expect you in the sparring arena at 0800 sharp."

The padawan stifled a groan. She loathed sparring, and no one knew that better than the Order's Battlemaster. It was meant to be a gentle rebuke, a reminder not to allow the morning's events to reoccur. "Yes, Master Drallig," she said quietly.

Seeming to sense it was enough, he nodded. A glance past her shoulder. "Where is your master?"

Inwardly, she winced. It was a question she heard far too frequently these days. "Council business," she said simply.

"Hmmm," said Cin Drallig, and no more. "Well, I'll be on my rounds. 0800 sharp, mind," he called over his shoulder.

"Yes, Master," said Padmé, though by now he was too far away to hear it. Slowly, she walked to where the young mechanic had been waiting. She found him near one of the large transport platforms, watching as returning starfighters were lowered, three at a time, to the maintenance bay a dozen meters below.

He glanced up at her approach. "What was that all about?"

"Jedi business," she said briskly. "Have you learned anything useful?"

"I haven't been able to get close enough to a Delta-7 to inspect one, but your Jedi Hangar seems decent enough."

She hid a smile. "We aim to please, Commander Skywalker."

There now came a faint clatter, and both looked to see what had caused it. A sanitation worker had been carefully smearing cleanser on the already sparkling floor, and his bucket had gotten away from him. The clatter was the bucket nearly tipping, then rebalancing. The worker, a scarlet Togruta with a thick jacket and prominent horns, was extremely apologetic, and smiling, the padawan waved him on.

Anakin, on the other hand, gave a sudden lurch to one side. Providentially, a bit of bracing happened to be nearby, and he leaned heavily on it, skin pallid, trembling violently.

Alarmed, she put a hand on his arm to steady him. "Are you unwell, Commander Skywalker?"

A bit of labored breathing before he was able to answer. "I'm fine." He smiled ruefully, gazing intently at the departing Togruta. "I, uh… didn't sleep."

At this, Padmé removed her hand and examined him carefully, taking in the red-rimmed eyes, the hollow cheeks, the smudge of stubble on his jaw. Doubtless, he'd spent the evening drinking himself sodden in some Force-forsaken bar. She compressed her lips. "Indeed. It's a wonder you arrived at all." She gazed at him coldly, her face tinged with pink. "If you're unfit for duty, Commander Skywalker, be assured we'll find someone able to complete the necessary tasks."

A smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Here I am, Padawan Naberrie," he said quietly. "Tell me what you want done, and I'll do it."

With a terse nod, she gestured toward the collection of vehicles. "I see you've already located the starfighters. It was a good use of initiative, given your condition."

"Thank you."

Inclining her head, she began speaking more diplomatically. "From what I understand, your task is a simple one: you're to inspect each starfighter and take note of anything out of the ordinary."

"Is there cause to believe they've been tampered with?"

At this, she favored him with a bout of stern silence. In truth, she knew as little about the matter as he did, but would die before she let on. "Just see to it that all fighters are inspected thoroughly," she said at last. "Any needed repairs should be standard order."

"What repairs might they need? What am I inspecting them for?"

"Just look them over, Commander."

"I'm afraid you're going to have to give me a little more information than that," he said gently. "You asked for a mechanic, not a magician."

"And you're neither," Padmé interjected before she could stop herself.

He went on, ignoring the jibe. "So while I'm glad to be of assistance, I need more to go off of than, 'The Council wanted them back.' I need log books, maintenance records, sign-offs from docking authorities, that sort of thing." A pause. "For instance, when's the last time they had their heavy checks?"

She looked away. "I haven't the faintest idea. I don't even know what 'heavy checks' are."

He chuckled. "I get the feeling you're not that interested in spacecraft, Padawan Naberrie. Or machinery in general, for that matter."

"Your senses serve you well," she said shortly. "I'm not."

"So why is this your problem, again?"

"My problem?"

"Why were you given this assignment?"

_My master is keeping me occupied with trivialities while he attends to matters of consequence. _Or, less formally: _My master is giving me busy work while he does whatever it is he's doing._

"My master wishes it done," she said aloud, and changed the subject. "I can't adequately respond to questions of a technical nature, but Agent Lessek should be able to supply the information you require, and failing that, there's always the Archives."

Anakin grinned. "Lessek, huh? That the guy who nearly fed me his plasma spear?"

"No, the one who arranged to have it done." Peered past the young man's shoulder, she gestured with her chin. "And I think I see him heading this way."

Agent Lessek was, indeed, heading that way. "What is _he_ doing over here?" he demanded. "This is where we keep the Delta-7s." He looked fiercely at Anakin. "You see this cordon? It's there for a reason. What are you on about now, snooping around our ships?"

A smile. "I'm here to fix them."

Lessek glanced at Padmé. "Surely you jest."

"I do not. This the Jedi business I was referencing, Agent Lessek. Commander Skywalker is to see the ships remain in good repair while removed from their maintenance facilities on Kuat."

Agent Lessek eyed the young man dubiously, then abruptly began spouting off questions.

"How many fasteners in a bulkhead?"

"Depends on the width of the durasteel."

"Why do we use talc on wiring?"

"To ease passage through conduits and prevent chafing."

"What's the greatest hazard in spacecraft structure?"

"Stress risers and premature breakdown." Anakin looked past him. "I'll be able to give you a better sense of my expertise when you let me over this line."

"Absolutely not. After your antics this morning? This is the finest fleet of spacecraft in the galaxy. You'll go near them over my dead body."

The young man turned silently to Padmé.

"Agent Lessek," she said patiently, "This is a _Council _commission. It's not up for debate."

Agent Lessek acknowledged this with a nod, and the scowl deepened. "Fine. But he's not so much as blinking on them until he goes through Safety."

She nodded. "Very well. Thank you, Agent. If we need anything further, we'll let you know."

It was a clear dismissal, and with a stiff bow, Lessek left the hangar.

"Now then," Padmé said, rounding on the mechanic with some determination. "There is still the matter of your compensation. Yesterday, you left before we could discuss it."

It was the young man's turn for an impressive silence, during which he favored her with an ironical grin. There was a cleft in his chin; she hadn't noticed it before. Steeling herself against it, she tried again. "The Council insists that you be compensated, Commander Skywalker."

He waved away the imaginary credits as though present before him. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm not allowed not to worry. It's a Council directive."

A shrug. "All right. Let me take you out to dinner."

Two brown eyes flew wide with alarm.

"Fine," he chuckled. "Lunch, then. Caf. A noonday snack. A ration bar."

For the second time in two days, Padmé found herself laughing uncontrollably. "You'd take me out for a _ration_ bar?"

"I'd take you out for less than that, Angelface."

All traces of mirth slipped from the young woman's face, and she worried the corner of her lip.

Seeming to sense his advantage, he leaned forward earnestly. "Look," he said. "This is a business relationship, yeah? I've got to report what I'm doing? My 'progress'?"

Padmé nodded. "It's a matter of procedure."

A decisive nod. "Good. So we just change the location of the 'procedure.'"

Inwardly, she struggled to find a flaw with the young man's logic. It was there—she could almost taste it—but she couldn't pin it down.

"Fine," she relented at last. "But there is still the matter of the credits."

His blue eyes twinkled. "I just landed an apprenticeship. No credits allowed."

The padawan considered. "Okay."

She decided not to ask for further details concerning this 'apprenticeship.' She didn't want to be forced to lie to her master.

* * *

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